What Goes Around
by gopadfoot
Summary: What if a certain comment from John, after the events at Sherrinford, had led to Sherlock getting new insight into both his best friend and his brother? What if he reversed his plans because of that? A story about our favorite characters dealing with the consequences of their actions.
1. Chapter 1

"I just spoke to your brother," the DI informed Sherlock.

"How is he?" he asked softly.

" He's a bit shaken up, that's all," Lestrade replied in a louder voice, trying to be heard over the commotion around him. "She didn't hurt him; she just locked him up in her old cell."

"What goes around, come around," John commented ironically.

"Yeah, give me a moment, boys," Greg said absently, turning to leave.

Sherlock started, and turned his gaze on John. For a moment, he just looked at him, his gaze thoughtful and introspective.

"What is it, Sherlock," John probed gently.

Sherlock turned his gaze towards the approaching party. Eurus was being led away, looking lost and confused. "I said I'll bring her home, but I can't, can I? I lied to her, John," Sherlock said quietly, intensely.

"Sherlock, you did what you could," John reassured him.

Sherlock gave his friend another intense look. "I wonder when that will come around to me."

"Sherlock, that's not what I meant... I mean, it was Mycroft...'" the doctor stuttered, flustered.

Sherlock gave a small sigh. "I think we all need a good night's rest." He walked over to the DI and tapped himy on the shoulder. "Greg, about John. Can you make sure he's taken care of? He is not as strong as he thinks he is."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of him. Any suggestions to where he can spend the night?"

"I think you should take him to Mrs. Hudson's sister, where our landlady has temporarily moved to. If anyone can use some maternal fussing now, it's John. They'll be good for him."

"Right, I'll suggest it to him. Where would you like to go now?"

"I need to see my brother."

"I'll have that arranged as well," the DI promised.

As the consultant detective went back to his friend, Lestrade turned back to the police officer he had been speaking to and remarked, "No, he's better than that. He's a _good_ one."

* * *

Sherlock found his older brother lying in a hospital bed, attached to several monitors. Mycroft looked up at his arrival, his expression showing surprise.

"Sherlock?" he questioned.

"That's still my name. Unless you've been hiding something else from me?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked intensely at his brother.

"Look, Sherlock, I know you must be very angry at me -"

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted him, his tone flat. "For once, just shut up."

The younger man flopped down on a chair and observed the beeping monitors. Then he scanned his brother's face, as if searching for something. After a moment, he gently took hold of Mycroft's wrist and felt for a pulse. He held it for a long moment. The older man looked at him in confusion, and before understanding dawned, and then spoke up.

"Yes, I'm still alive and kicking, to everyone's misfortune," he said with a touch of his usual ascerbity.

"I don't intend on remedying that," Sherlock retorted, quietly and firmly. His brother tried to read between the lines. Was he offering an apology? A promise? It probably contained a bit of both. Mycroft sighed and and tentatively placed his other hand on Sherlock's, still holding his.

"Is there anything I can do for you now, brother mine?"

Sherlock appeared to be considering that, and then answered, "Just tell me where the hell I can get a cigarette right now."

Mycroft gave a weak chuckle, and told his brother, "Let's make a deal. You get me out of here, and I'll give you one."

"The _real_ thing this time," his brother insisted, glaring at him.

"Alright," the British Government capitulated, with a small smile.

"So, you're being treated for acute stress reaction, I assume," Sherlock looked to his brother, who confirmed it with a nod.

"You're pulse is only a bit above normal, and all your other vitals are within normal range. You still are pale, but that's only because you prefer to sit on your backside and leave the legwork to us hardworking folk. I believe I can get you released into my custody," Sherlock smirked.

"Whatever, just get me out of here, I'm really not fond of hospitals."

"Neither am I," the detective responded. The Holmes brother's found that hospitals gave them both sensory overload, what with all the blinking lights, sounds and smells. They both suffered from sensory issues due to their acute senses, which continuously bombarded them with information. Sherlock dealt with an overload by retreating into his Mind Palace, while Mycroft, who was even more sensitive to stimuli, built the Diogenes Club. They both agreed that hospitals were one of the top ten offenders to their senses.

After consulting with Mycroft's doctors, and promising to keep an eye on himy, the younger brother returned to the room. "Come on, brother mine, I'm taking you home."

"This is quite a turnaround, isn't it?" Mycroft grinned sardonically. "You getting me released from the hospital, with a promise of good behavior."

Sherlock grinned back, the tension in his face easing a bit. "As someone has told me today, what goes around, comes around."

 **A/N:** I might add another part to this, describing more of the brother's discussion when they come home, and also Sherlock addressing John's attitude towards Mycroft in TFP. I have never seen that addressed before. Let me know if you'd like to see that.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This story seems to have developed a mind of its own, and isn't finished yet. I'm hoping to include John in the next chapter. We'll see how it goes.

* * *

The balcony on the second floor of Mycroft's mansion provided a nice view of the grounds, and was as good a place as any to catch a smoke. They stood side by side in silence, breathing in the acrid air of their cigarettes.

Both brother's found themselves relaxing somewhat, breathing out tension along with the smoke. The routine itself was as soothing as the nicotine. They had done this before on occasion, when the need was great.

Ordinarily, being in each other's company was reason enough to let the sparks fly, and they therefore kept those times to a minimum. Sneaking a smoke together was reserved for the very rare times when one of themy would deign to acknowledge a need for the company of the other, usually when something went wrong, or was about to.

They had turned it into something of a ritual. Light the cigarettes, concentrate on breathing in and out in silence. Then one of them would casually let slip a comment, a question, an offhand remark, something they would never say out loud at any other time. It had happened at the morgue- _Do you think there's something wrong with us?-_ and on Christmas after Sherlock was shot- _Your loss would break my heart-_ and both of them knew to never speak of those conversations again. The cigarettes they shared were analogous to their relationship; combustible, rarely indulged in, but with a certain soothing quality that couldn't be replicated by any substitute.

Sherlock held out his hand for a second cig, which Mycroft reluctantly indulged him. Today was not a day for worrying about nicotine addiction, the older man mused, as he himyself took another one. This time, he spoke up.

"You seem to be doing pretty well after the day you'very had."

The younger man pondered the statement, and then responded. "It must be the adrenaline. I was in working mode all day long, and I'very got an overload of it that hasn't worn off yet."

Silence reigned once more, until Mycroft broke it again. "I must admit that you've surprised me once again. You have performed admirably under impossible circumstances. You must be... stronger, I suppose, than I ever imagined you could be."

Sherlock cocked his head to the right side, appearing to contemplate his brother's words. Then he commented, "This day seems to have brought a lot of surprises in its wake."

"Yes. The exhuming of hidden demons... the uncovering of hidden strengths... and hidden weaknesses." The last part was said in a tone laced with despair, containing a hint of bitterness.

Sherlock dropped his cig onto the floor and extinguished it with his foot. He leaned against the wall and put one hand to his forehead. "I think I'might starting to crash."

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked anxiously.

"I thought _I_ was supposed to keep an eye on _you,_ " his brother retorted.

"There are constants in this universe that never change, Sherlock. I will always be concerned in regard to matters pertaining to you."

"Is that another way of saying that you worry about me?" The younger asked with a touch of difference.

"Probably. Although I don't know if that does your any good. I failed you, Sherlock. In a big way, this time. I don't delude myself into thinking that this will fix anythit ng, but I want you to know that I'm sorry."

Sherlock was still leaning against the wall, and he momentarily closed his eyes. "Don't, Mycroft, not now. I still haven't processed everything. There was too much... and everything... and Eurus, and Redbeard, I don't know where to start." His began rubbing his head, seeming to be in pain.

"One step at a time, Sherlock, one step at a time," the older brother said with unaccustomed gentleness. "I'll be there for you, if you ever want me too, that is."

Sherlock winced, and Mycroot couldn't figure out if it was because of the pain or something that he said. "Not...you too," Sherlock mumbled. "Don't... leave me."

With his eyes closed, Sherlock didn't witness the shock and anguish spreading across his older brother'said features. He only felt gentle hands pulling him inside and felt the smooth pills and the glass of water being thrust into his hands. He heard his brother's voice urging him to swallow the medication to help with the pain, and smelled the rich aroman of brewing tea.

The simple ministrations calmed the agony in his head somewhat. He retreated into his Mind Palace and found himself capable of separating his tangle of thoughts into more manageable chunks.

He divided the experiences of the day into several categories. There was one named Eurus, another was John, there was Redbeard, Mycroft, and so on. Within each category he placed all the smaller detailsize to be sorted at a later time. The process left him feeling less helpless, and more in control of his thoughts.

When he opened his eyes, Mycroft urged him to go to bed. They both busied themselves with their preparations, and then the older man came to bid his little brother good night.

"Mycroft, hold on a moment," Sherlock requested. There werected some things he needed to say to his older brother, but he first needed to retrieve some information from his Mind Palace. He closed his eyes for a few moments.

"Eurus is supposed to be very clever," he announced when he opened his eyes.

Mycroft looked at him, puzzled.

"And?" he questioned.

"She said I'll have to choose between my friends. She referred to both you and John Watson as my friends."

Mycroft remained silent, but Sherlock could detect a flash of pain in his eyes. Mycroft bowed his head, as if waiting for a blow.

"How could someone so clever confuse a friend with an archenemy?" the detective queried.

"How, indeed," Mycroft repeated dryly.

"Or perhaps she is indeed more clever than we are." Sherlock held his brother's gaze for a long moment. He tried to communicate with his eyes all the words he couldn't say, and all the emotions he couldn't show. Sorrow and pain mingled with deep yearning, and it was anyone's guess what for. Buried deep within his swirling blue eyes, Mycroft detected a hint of tender affection, and that was enough for him.

"Goodnight, brother mine," he placed a tentative hand on the younger one's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. The younger man smiled a bit and returned the salutation, one that was reserved only for only one person in the universe. "Goodnight to you too, brother mine."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This piece is turning into something much bigger than I expected, and might become a full length story. I want to focus on characters dealing with consequences of actions they have taken, and words they have said- or didn't. I appreciate your enthusiastic response to the first two chapters, and hope you continue to enjoy:)

* * *

Unsurprisingly, neither brother slept very well that nI got. Sherlock's sleep was plagued with nightmares, ranging from seeing John drowning in the well, to seeing his brother with a holetter in his heart, put their by his own self. Redbeard also put in an appearance, as a dog drowning in that very same well, screaming with a little boy's voice for Yellow beard to come save him.

Mycroft saw Sherlock, John, and the governor, with blood pouring from their eyes. He saw his own hands smeared with blood, and he was frighteningly aware that he was dreaming, yet the the blood still felt real. Eurus and Moriarty were on the sidelines, grinning in triumph, and he was begging them to take his life, too.

Athe five in the morning, Mycroft headed downstairs in his dressing gown. He nodded to his brother, who was already seated at the table, sipping coffee. The younger man gestured towards the pot, and the older one poured himself a cup.

After finishing his cup, Mycroft inquired cautiously, "How is Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock paused to consider. "I would say relatively fine, for all he went through."

"If it isn't too soon, would you consider telling me what happened yesterday at Musgrave?"

The detective looked at his brother, puzzled.

"Yes, DI Lestrade gave me a report, but I would prefer to hear it from you, in you own words."

Sherlock heard the words unspoken; _I need to know what I did to you._ He began to narrate the facts, bare-bones, keeping his voice level. As he described his conversation with Eurus, regarding Redbeard, something began to nag at his subconscious. He continued on to where he solved the puzzle, and begged Eurus to save John Watson. He suddenly realized what the nah was telling him. Something was missing from the picture. Something big.

He didn't quite know how to feel about that. His mind had been occupied by the girl on the plane, and John was in immediate danger. Then Eurus was breaking down in front of his eyes. But now, sitting at the kitchen table, facing his brother, he couldn't explain to him why he hadn't asked his sister about Mycroft, too. For all he knew, the oldest brother could have been drowning, or choking, or dying some other way, all alone. The plain truth was that, beyond at first questioning John about Mycroft'said whereabout's, he hadn't spared his brother another thought.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and quietly finished off, telling Mycroft about how he saw Eurus being led away. "I had promised her to bring her home, but I realized then that I couldn't."

He opened his eyes, and found Mycroft looking down at his hands, clasped upon the tabletop. "I know," he said, and Sherlock suddenly realized the terrible truth. Mycroft had wanted to do the same, for over thirty-four years, and all that time he knew he hadn't a hope.

"Did you have anything planned for today, Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired, changing the subject.

"We need to tell them, Mycroft," Sherlock said firmly, though not without compassion.

Mycroft's shoulders slumped so minutely, it took the skills of a Sherlock Holmes to notice. "I know, I... I will, I only... would you give me one more day?"

Sherlock kept his face averted from the sight of his brother'scowled stricken face, as he answered, "Tomorrow then." He paused, then added, "I'll be there." Mycroft didn't know whether to interpret that as a promise, or a threat.

"Will you be off to Mrs. Hudson then, and the Watson's?"

"Perhaps."

Mycroft had suspected something was off with his brother, and it related to John Watson. His response only confirmed it. He delicately pressed on, hoping his interference wouldn't result in a blowup on his brother's part.

"I would have thought you would spend the night over there. Mrs. Hudson's sister has plenty of space in her country house, you know."

"I wanted to see you in a hospital gown. That's not a sight I've ever seen before," Sherlock said in poor attempt at humor. His brother didn't desist.

"The doctor will definitely try to contact you, if you don't do it first. If you need anything, such as a car or such, please do let me know."

The younger man was silent for a moment, before he blurted out, "I'm not sure I want to see him today. I'll give him a call. I need to do some major repairs in here," he pointed to his forehead, where his massive brain lay concealed. "And I need you here, to help sort out the truth from fantasy, because I need to know. I can't go on living a lie any longer."

Mycroft felt a wave of guilt wash over him once again, at having let his little brother live a lie for so long, and probably reinforced his false memories with his method of checking up on him. At the same time, he was touched that his brother still trusted him, and was giving hime a chance to make things right.

Mycroft had to go into the office for several hours, to take care of all the issues the breach in security at Sherrinford had caused. He came back exhausted, but then sat down with Sherlock and began talking about his memories of Sherlock's early years. As he spoke, more and more memories of Sherlock began to emerge, until it turned into a deluge that threatened to drown his brother's psyche once again.

Mycroft firmly insisted that they stop, and continue at another time. "One step at a time, Sherlock. You'll get there. I'll still be there for you, I promise."

It was the first time that Mycroft could remember that he made that promise, and wasn't met with scorn. Instead, Sherlock nodded. He disappeared into his Mind Palace again, and locked all the rooms, before opening his eyes.

Mycroft ordered dinner and offered Sherlock to stay as long as he like, as long as he didn't mess with either his movies or his umbrella again. Sherlock didn't smirk, or react at all.

"I thought it was me," he said in a voice that was made flat with hidden pain.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in confusion.

"John. After... she died. But it's more than that."

Mycroft struggled to follow those cryptic words.

"I blamed myself, and I let him blame me. I followed Mary's advice, and I thought I got him back. But it isn't the same."

"Sherlock," Mycroft hesitated. He was one of the least qualified people on the planet to hand out relationship advice. Yet he felt the need to comfort his brother, so he tried. "It makes sense that people change after a trauma. You've been through that yourself. However, it is clear that he's as devoted to you as he's always been."

Sherlock shook his head. "This isn't about me. This is about John acting in a way that the John I first met wouldn't have. I'm afraid that the way he's been hurt again and again has damaged him in a way, and I take some responsibility for that."

"Damaged?"

"Everything he has felt about me hasn't disappeared, Mycroft. It was only transferred."

Suddenly, Mycroft was hit with what his brother was trying to tell him. All the pain, rancor and blame that John had not so long ago unfairly heaped on his brother, was now directed towards himself. That explained a thing or two.

John must have said something the night before, something critical of Mycroft, and Sherlock must have been feeling guilty and anxious about Mycroft at the time, and it rubbed him the wrong way. Sherlock had actually felt defensive about his brother. Would wonders never cease?

Mycroft carefully considered his reply. He had an opportunity to plant seeds of doubt in his brother's mind, to cause a rift between the doctor and him. A spiteful part of him urged him to do just that. Yet for all his faults, Mycroft Holmes still worried about his brother constantly, and knew that he needed John Watson in his life.

"When I first did my research about a Dr. John Watson, formerly a captain in the RAMC," Mycroft began quietly, contemplative lyrics. "I saw that his therapist had diagnosed him with trust issues. Yet he instinctively knew that he could trust you. Over the years, he has been lied to and betrayed so many times, that even a trusting person in his place would be expected to break.

"We didn't have much of a choice, but we lied to him and let him believe you're dead. The woman he loved lied to him and betrayed him. Then his therapist, whom he trusted to help him recover, turned out to be a fraud, who tried to kill him. I honestly can't blame him for losing some faith in humanity."

"I don't want to see him like this. I'm afraid of what he can become."

"I know you, Sherlock, and I know Dr. Watson. You both are surrounded by people who will support you, no matter what. He'll come around, I promise you. Even if only for the fact that you will never give up on him."

Sherlock was grateful to his brother for trying to comfort him. He only wished he could believe him.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I have more ideas for this story, but I haven't gotten any feedback for the last chapter. I'd like to know if their's still interested. Is the pace too slow? Is it too boring? Does it make any sense at all? Is there something specific you'd like to see? Please let me know! I want to give you my best. Thank you!

* * *

As it turned out, the senior Holmes's weren't able to come in person before another couple of days, to Mycroft's great relief. Sherlock ended up spending the next day with the Watson's and their hosts. He found himself relaxing and enjoying everyone's company, and suddenly realized how much he had missed John.

The conversation was lighthearted, punctuated by Rosie's babbling and Mrs. Hudson's continuous fussing. Stella Manning, their landlady's sister, was a divorced woman with two adult children, and a very different personality from her sister. She was more reserved and didn't talk much, but took John and Rosie under her wing with gentle care. Sherlock was relieved that they were in good hands.

Martha, Stella, and John were all after Sherlock to extend his visit, and stay for several days. Sherlock politely declined, saying he had things to take care of in the city. He first wanted to see himself and Mycroft through their parents' visit, and would take it from there.

Mycroft busied himself in his office, trying to seal all the leaks that had been sprung, and secure Sherrinford once more. New staff had been installed, with new instructions, and all of the former staff were undergoing rigorous psychiatric debriefing. Moriarty's file was dug up and gone over with a fine tooth comb, searching for any links they might have missed.

Mycroft would never say it out loud, or let it show, but his brother's presence in his home was reassuring, soothing some of his angst. Having him near also eased some of his constant 'concern', as he was able to keep a close range eye on him.

Two more days passed, spent by the Holmes's in both their individual visual pursuits and a couple of planning sessions, regarding the meeting with Mummy and Dad. Sherlock noticed his brother's growing anxiety, and felt enough compassion to tone down his snarky remarks. He was sure Mycroft appreciated that.

The night before the fateful meeting, the detective fell asleep with an uneasy feeling in his gut, a premonition that some things would not be alright.

* * *

Holding his breath, the consulting detective silently dismantled the security cameras and broke into the room. The balaclava and black clothes were so clichéd as to make him wince, but effective nevertheless.

This was all Mycroft's fault, once again. His premonition had proved itself to be right, when the meeting turned into a blowup. Accusations were flung, sharp words were spoken, and by consensual agreement, Mycroft hadn't been speaking to anyone in his family since then.

Sherlock had felt somewhat guilty for standing by silently as the sparks flew, not stepping in and trying to make peace. He had counted on things calming down after a while, but it had turned out very differently.

He had tried texting and calling Mycroft, only to be met by silence. He spoke to his parents often, comforting them and promising to help Eurus. Only once did he mention Mycroft, and their reaction convinced him to drop the issue for now.

221b had been rebuilt, and Sherlock was back to solving cases with John. He also made twice weekly visits to Sherrinford, coordinated by Anthea. Mycroft refused to have contact with him directly.

Sherlock was irritated with his brother, and decided to let him play his game. He stopped trying to contact him. Sometimes, he would whip out his phone and begin typing a text, asking for information or assistance in some cases or other, when he would catch himself and angrily delete it.c

When Mrs. Hudson once tried calling Mycroft when her car was towed, Anthea had picked up and politely informed her that speeding while holding a mobile was against the law, and Mr. Holmes was involved with other matters. The landlady fumed at her attitude, and asked Sherlock to intervene. Sherlock solved the matter through Lestrade, but was fuming too.

He predictably marched into the anterior of Mycroft's office, and flatly demanded to be let in. Anthea looked at him coolly, and informed him in bored tines that her boss was unavailable to meet with hime.

Before Sherlock could attempt to break in, Anthea spoke up while still typing away. "We both know why you're here, Mr. Holmes. You come here only to take, and never to give." She busied herself with her tasks without saying another word.

The detective stayed rooted to his place, looking alternatively at the PA and his brother's door. He then turned around to leave with quiet steps, his shoulders unnaturally slumped.

During his continued visits to his sister, Sherlock began to feel a burning need to do more. He wanted to look at her previous psychiatric records, which now had a D notice slapped on them. He felt that if he could access them, he would gain much needed insight, and perhaps give back to his parents a daughter who would actually talk to them.

After fruitless appeals to Mycroft, through Anthea of course, and even Lady Smallwood, which were met with frosty refusals, Sherlock took matters into his own hands, and broke into Sherrinford, where the records were kept, and hacked into the computer system for good measure. He had found what he came for, with none the wiser. Or so he thought.

It was only when he found himself trussed up like a chicken later that night, in his own home to boot, that he realized how erroneous his assumptions were. He didn't know who the five big guys were working for, but they were clearly well-trained and dangerous, and wanted all the information he had on Sherrinford.

Their attempts at intimidation was laughable, until they began showing him the video clips. They had their eyes on _everyone_! John playing with Rosie in Stella's kitchen, Molly curled up on her couch with Toby, even Lestrade drinking at his kitchen table in a dressing gown. The cameras were close enough to get all the details, and a frisson of fear slithered up Sherlock's back.

They wanted to know more than he was ever prepared to tell them. Giving them the information would let loose the most dangerous of criminals, and then nobody would be safe. Nobody. Eurus might even take the opportunity and come after them again. No matter how much he cared for her, her twisted psyche made her a threat.

"No," was all he said, over and over again. "No, no, no." The sudden pounding of feet was heard upon the stairs, and he dared to hope. Had rescue arrived?

He had never been more glad for the sight of his pompous git of a brother. A sliver of warmth stole into his heart. Big Brother was still following him around, still watching him. He watched Mycroft walking over calmly to one thug, swinging his umbrella. "Mission complete," he said, and the guy nodded, "Yes, sir," and left with his men.

"Mycroft?!" Sherlock said, his voice small. "What... what was that?"

His question was answered by none other than Lady Smallwood, who had arrived behind Mycroft. "We needed to know whether our security had been compromised by you. We had to find out whether you would be willing to talk." She looked at glared at him icily.

"You have an invitation, brother mine, at my office tomorrow," Mycroft said in his coldest voice, which made Antarctica compare to the Sahara at midday. Be prompt. You don't want to make us come and get you."

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood turned around and left without another word. Sherlock stayed behind, feeling furious, betrayed, and heartbroken.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** My most heartfelt thanks for your amazing support. I hope you continue enjoying!

* * *

Sherlock arrived at Whitehall right on time, and was confused and worried when two security guards intercepted him and asked him to accompany them. His slight feelings of unease grew into outright apprehension when he realized where they were leading him. It was the holding room, ironically where Mycroft had once interrogated Lady Smallwood.

He found the stern Lady seated next to Mycroft, with a chair prepared for him on the other side. Anthea was standing, leaning against the wall and adjusting her earphones. The PA gestured for hime to sit down.

"Why exactly are we here?" Sherlock questinned, with a touch of diffidence.

It was Anthea who answered. "This is standard procedure for questioning suspected offenders, which is what you are right now, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stared at his brother incredulously. "Mycroft!" he hissed in indignation. His brother didn't even glance his way.

"You need to sit down before this session can begin," Anthea continued in the same indifferent tone.

Something about her response rang a bell, but Sherlock was in too much distress to delve into it. He reluctantly sat down and watched Lady SMillwood prepare a pen, a notepad, and a recorder.

"Would you like some gingernuts?" Anthea inquired, and Sherlock was confused by her change in attitude.

"Please," he replied politely.

"What a pity we're out," she said, and flounced out of the room.

Sherlock had an Eureka moment right then. The housebreaking, the interrogation, thetc cold attitude was all part of one goal; payback. And what better way to accomplish that than Sherlock's own methods?

"Mr. Holmes, we need you to state your name for the records, and then you may tell us all about your adventures at Sherrinford. You will leave nothing out," Lady Smallwood said in her most official tones. It was only now that Sherlock realized how differently she usu ally spoke to him. There was always an undercurrent of compassion, and sometimes amusement, that softened her voice somewhat. She had been well briefed, and was angry on Mycroft's behalf.

Despite his realization, the younger man still felt helpless and humiliated. "I suppose that asking you to consider this a family matter would be the next part I play," Sherlock said sarcastically.

His brother was now looking directly at him, smiling humour less lyrics. "Ah, family," he drawled condescendingly. "Some would say family is those whom we chose to consider as such, isn't that right?" He smiled, and then added in a very soft, intense voice, " _Brother mine?_ "

Sherlock broke then and there, a lump forming in his throat as he blinked back tears. Uncaring of anyone else who might be observing, he practically pleaded with his brother, "Mycroft, please, I'm sorry, I never wanted things to come to this. Please stop this, just-stop. This isn't you. This isn't real!"

* * *

Sherlock's first thought as he gasped awake was, "It wasn't real. It wasn't real, after all."

His frighteningly realistic dream seemed to have been conjused somewhere in the inner reaches of his Mind Palace. Sherlock considered it's implications, still a bit shaken in the aftermath. Was his subconscious warning him about what was likely to happen? Or was it a fear and guilt induced hallucination? Or, most likely, it was a representation of where hishe imagination had led him, after that offhand comment from John. What goes around, indeed.

Still out of sorts, Sherlock sat down at the breakfast table, pondering the fact that he and Mycroft had coexistence in the same house for several days without any severe repercussions, either physical or mental. He eyed his brother while sipping his coffee.

"Have you ever considered," he blurted out through his pre-caffeinated haze, "perhaps getting some of your minions to hold me hostage? In order to get me to cooperate?"

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and uttered a non-committal "Hmmmm". He was never very verbal before he finished his morning coffeeveryone.

"Would you have them tie me up? And have me believe that my friends are in danger? You know, if you wanted me to talk?"

Mycroft had finished his cup, and calmly placed it on the saucer. "I must admit, you present some tempting ideas. Would you like me to try them?" He affected deep contemplation.

"Would you have Lady Smallwood assist you with it? What about Anthea?"

His older brother looked at him shrewdly. "You've certainly thought of all the details. Is this some kind of intricate plan of yours that you expect all of us to play along with?"

"No, no, it's not for a case..." Sherlock trailed off, flustered. "I just... you-you"

It was his big brother's flustered look that finally set him off, in paroxysms of laughter, with a hysterical edge. "You... and Anthea...and the gingernuts...and _your face_!" he choked out between bouts. His laughter held as much amusement as it held relief. What had been frightening in the night looked ridiculous in the present, sitting across his obnoxious big brother, who looked highly perplexed and even alarmed.

Mycroft, _his_ Mycroft, would never behave that way to his little brother. Would he?

* * *

The meeting was set for eleven sharp, and at a quarter to, Sherlock was already pacing and Mycroft twirling his umbrella, both using their typical coping mechanisms to quell their growing anxiety.

"I have a little feeling that they won't take this very well," Mycroft said dryly.

"We already went over this," Sherlock replied quietly. "They probably won't. Are you sure you should be the one..." He gestured helplessly.

"My decisions, my consequences," Mycroft stated with his trademark ironic little smile.

"I have your back, you know," Sherlock replied firmly.

Mycroft looked at him with such agonized determination in his eyes that Sherlock uncomfortably looked away.

"You cannot always save someone from their own mistakes," he said with steadfast conviction, and the air between them thickened with hundreds of words that they still wanted to say, but couldn't express.

The Holmes's Senior arrived, adding their own anxiety and confusion to all the emotions choking the small space.

Mycroft didn't beat around the bush. "Mummy, Dad, this is about Eurus," he began.

"Sherlock?" his mother turned to him, her face pale. "Did you remember?"

"Not quite, Mummy," Mycroft spoke with difficulty. "I'm sorry. I lied to you. She's... she's still alive."

After the bombshell was dropped, things only went downhill. Mummy furiously asked Mycroft how he dared, and called him an idiot. Sherlock quietly spoke up in his defense, which only made things worse. Mycroft wasn't given a chance to explain, and was then dismissed as limited. Mummy then turned to Sherlock for help.

The younger son placed his hands in the pocket of his coat and lost himself in thought. His parents were feeling shocked and betrayed. If Mummy's laughable grownup comments were anything to go by, they weren't thinking rationally.

In his most gentle manner, he accompanied them out to their car, promising to do his best for his sister. He urged them to take their time with dealing with the news. He kissed his mother goodbye, and was briefly embraced by his father. Mummy then squeezed his hand tightly, and he felt compelled to reassure them that everything would be alright.

After he wavedid them off, he retraced his steps to his brother's office.

The sight that met him gave him pause, like few things in his life ever did. Mycroft was sittimg hunched over his hands folded on the desk. His eyes were glazed over, in stark contrast to his usually razor-sharp gaze. His jaw was hanging slightly open, as if the effort to keep it closed was beyond him. He was frozen in place, and didn't as much as move a muscle when Sherlock approached.

"So, family is difficult, hmm?" Sherlock tried, but that elicited no response.

The sun had set in Great Britain. Mycroft Holmes was broken.

"Being a grownup isn't all it'surprised cracked up to be, you know," he tried again, getting desperate.

Still nothing.

Sherlock felt himself getting angry. His mindad conjured the image of hundreds of text messages going off simultaneously, each one reading "WRONG!"

"No," he said, and jumped over the desk (because Sherlock Holmes didn't go around when he could go over) and twisted his brother's chair around to have him be facing him.

"Listen to me, brother mine," he said fiercely, "you may be a bit limited in here," he jabbed a finger to his brother's forehead, which produced a small flinch, "but over here," he pointed to the older man's heart, "you are unlimited."

His brother spoke up in a voice so small and defeated, that Sherlock found himself longing for the old, pompous git to make an appearance. Even the cold-hearted bas*** of his dreams seemed preferable to this. Ice can easily melt, but a broken man isn't easily mended.

"What would you know about my heart?" he said with only trace of cynicism.

"Only what you showed me," Sherlock shot back, and the memories haunted the air between them.

 _I don't imagine it's much of a target..._

Sherlock closed the space between himself and his brother and pulled him into a tight embrace. He clung to him until Mycroft's initial stiffness melted away, until he tentatively returned the gesture. No words needed to be spoken, or tears shed. The moment was only a rare communication between two hearts that had, in fact, never stopped beating.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** So, I'm finally back, after going off on a tangent to write an AU of this story, "Coming Around." I've waited until it's complete, so I wouldn't confuse myself with two story lines. Go read it if you haven't, and tell me what you think of it:)

I hope to have quicker updates here, now that I've finished. Thank you for your patience!

* * *

Stella turned out to be much shrewder than her homey appearance let on. She had managed to convince John to stay with Rosie for a while longer, citing her concern for her sister. "Martha's pretty lonely here," she told him conspirationally. "She needs to have you around. And your Rosie is wonderful for her. She helps her forget all that nasty business you all went through."

So John was still in the countryside, three weeks later, when Sherlock paid another one of his frequent visits.

"Still at Mycroft's?" John inquired.

"Baker Street should be done in the next week or two," Sherlock shrugged, as if asking, "What choice do I have?"

"That's pretty quick, for the amount of renovations it's getting. I guess it makes no sense to get a place of your own."

"I'll need to make a trip into the city, to see how it's going," Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "Sherlock, are you sure you don't want to stay here for a bit? We'd love to have you."

"Hmm, perhaps over the weekend."

"As nice as this holiday was," John mused, "I can't wait to get back to London. Doesn't Lestrade have any cases he wants us on?"

"Actually," Sherlock said slowly, "he didn't call in a while. I mean, there were no mysterious triple homicides or anything like that, but there must have been some other cases. Looks like he didn't want to interrupt our break or something."

Something was niggling at Sherlock's brain, a tidbit of information relacted to what he had just said. What some called intuition, he knew was something his subconscious had processed, but hadn't made it into his consciousness yet. It was a matter of putting the pieces together... Oh.

Lestrade had called Mycroft. Mycroft had made sure not to speak within earshot of his brother. It could have been something as simple as checking up on Sherlock, but the British Government's demeanor after the phone call had spoken otherwise. He had seemed somber, and had looked at his brother with something akin to pity, before he had schooled his expression into neutrality.

Shaking his head, the detective decided to confront his brother on it later. He read some of John's new blog entries, glad that his friend had begun writing again. That signified a return to normal, to having them both together again. He hoped so, at least.

"I'm so glad that you boys are going to be working together again," Mrs. Hudson gushed. "Will you still be returning to your locum work, John?"

"Of course, why not?" the doctor looked puzzled. "I could use the money, as well as the practice. I need to keep my license, after all."

"Of course you do, dear. It's just, you know, what about our sweet Rosie? You'll be quite busy, with your work, and then helping Sherlock... She needs her father, doesn't she?"

"Oh, of course, I mean," John was a bit flustered. "I'll make sure to spend time with her too. And she'll be getting plenty of love, no doubt. That's why we have you, right, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Definitely!" the proud godmother beamed. "Although I'm not as young as I used to be, and I can't be awake at all hours. Oh, and my hip, you know about my hip. Why, I just recently took the tube, and while I was walking down the stairs..."

The landlady went off on a tangent, regaling them with her tales of woe which alternately had the men holding back snickers or groans. Internally, Sherlock was brooding. He hadn't given much thought to having Rosamund in the equation, now that John was a single father. He wasn't much of an expert on parenting, but he was fiercely protective of his goddaughter, especially after her mother's death. He would just have to get used to John being less available.

"How's that brother of yours?" Mrs. Hudson asked him as he was preparing to leave, and Sherlock was jarred by the sudden disdain in her voice. "Mycroft's fine, Mrs. Hudson," he said neutrally.

"I really hope he's doing something to make it up for you," she sniffed, "after lying to you like that for so many years. I couldn't believe my ears when John told me everything."

Sherlock sighed internally. He wasn't much in the mood for playing along with his landlady's prejudices now, nor was he in the mood for playing peacemaker. He knew very well that he had a hand in Mrs. Hudson's antagonism towards his brother ( and in John's, too, but that matter was far more complicated.

After all, he'd sat and laughed with her and John after they told him about Mycroft being kicked out of 221b. Later on, he had conspired with them to humiliate Mycroft into acting as their client, and egged Mrs. Hudson on in mocking him. So now he would need to fix things, just a little bit, so that a full-out war wouldn't break out whenever his brother would decide to drop in. (And he wouldn't stay away, would he? Mycroft would never refrain from sticking his nose into Sherlock's business.)

"Mrs. Hudson, he did lie to me, but I lied to myself first. What could he have done when my mind had invented a story to protect itself? It wasn't like I was ready to hear the truth. He tried to tell me, you know, kept on hinting, waiting for me to remember something myself. But I was fooling myself too well," he smiled somewhat bitterly.

"I guess..." Mrs. Hudson said uncertainly.

"Anyway, he came to your rescue, didn't he? After the grenade went off. So you should really be sending him some homemade pies or something. Mince pies are his favorite, by the way," he winked.

His landlady chuckled. "Perhaps I will. Oh, you should have seen him, all covered in plaster, rushing in to pull me out. He looked quite dashing, actually. I hope his girlfriend knows to appreciate him, she's always seems to be too busy with her phone to look around her. You know, if I were a bit younger, you're brother is not so bad looking at all-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" both men yelled simultaneously, groaning. There eccentric landlady merely winked mischievously.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I am happy that so many people are still reading this story. And that I got several new faves and follows. I'm a bit less happy that no one reviewed. I guess the last chapter was a bit boring, but it was necessary for the plot. There was some foreshadowing over there, as you will soon see.

Anyway, things are heating up now, and who knows where matters will go... Please let me know what you think of it. And if anyone reviews this, or any of my other stories, you will make my day! ;)

* * *

Sherlock didn't confront his brother about the mysterious phone call with Lestrade that night. Nor did he confront him the rest of the time he stayed there. He wanted to believe that is was because he had more important things to deal with, or that he simply didn't want to stir the pot when things were going smoothly. In truth, he felt hurt. He was subtly testing both Mycroft and Lestrade, waiting to see if they trusted him enough to confide in him.

On the long anticipated day when Baker Street was habitable once again, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to go home, back to his creature comforts and bizarre habits. He longed for a fridge filled with human feet and a microwave splattered with eyeballs. No less did he long for a proper case, with his old partner by his side.

"We've had enough of a break, haven't we, John?" Sherlock asked giddily. "Back to business, now! I'm going to go after Lestrade," he said, while taking out his phone and texting.

"Are you settled with Rosie's care?" the detective asked when he finished.

"I've got her into a daycare center, and I suppose Mrs. Hudson or Molly will fill in after hours."

"What, a daycare center with twenty other kids? Who knows what kind of germs she'll pick up over there. We can hire a private nanny, and that way she can have individual attention, and probably more flexibility with the hours."

"I'm not a bloody billionaire, Sherlock!"John huffed, exasperated. "I can't afford a private nanny. The center's very good. I checked into it."

"Look, John, you'll be working on cases with me. I'm stealing you away from your daughter, and I feel responsible that she get the best care possible. At least let's find the very best center in the city. The cost will be paid as part of your business expenses. And let's not forget about security. I'm sure Mycroft can recommend the most secure-"

"I don't _need_ Mycroft to recommend anything. I know how to raise my own child without you Holmes's and your interfering opinions! Can't you let at least this part of my life be my own?!" John was moving beyond irritated and into genuine anger.

"Alright, alright," Sherlock retorted, miffed. "I was just trying to help, you know. Rosie is my goddaughter, after all, and, well, I suppose I'm a bit selfish, too. I want my blogger to be at his best, without worrying about other matters." The detective gave a small, apologetic smile.

John took a deep breath. "Yeah, I kind of overreacted over there. I just don't want Mycroft involved in this, honestly. I don't know what exactly is going on between you two, but I personally will take a long time to trust him again. I'm not exactly over our recent lovely experiences, you know."

The younger man was silent for several minutes, just staring at his friend, first time in bewilderment, and then in irritation. Finally, he spoke, in precise, clipped tones. "I'm sorry that you're having a hard time of it. It wasn't easy for any of us, you know. You do remember that Mycroft was in there, just like us two. I would have expected thought we were on the same side by now."

The doctor softened his tone. "Look, Sherlock, I know you've gone through a very difficult time recently. It can't have been easy to rediscover all the traumatic events, and know you've been living a lie. It's natural to turn to the familiar in order to find comfort. I suppose that's why you felt a need to stay with your brother. I just want to make sure he's not manipulating you again, taking advantage of you when you're so vulnerable."

"What the hell, John!" Sherlock yelled, uncharacteristically taken aback. "Exactly how long have you been trying to psychoanalyze me? You should stick to traditional medicine, you know. Psychoanalysis is just not your field."

"I'm also just trying to help, you know," the doctor said, with hurt in his voice.

"Of course," Sherlock let his shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry. I just need you to trust me, alright? I know what I'm doing. And I know Mycroft is trying his best to make up for his mistakes, and I believe we need to give him the chance."

"After all he's done?" John asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Exactly, John. After all he's done. He's done all he could to keep me alive and healthy. I don't always agree with his methods, but I'm not blind enough to think otherwise. You yourself used to call him all the time to help manage me, remember? You even had meetings in his office, in warehouses, I think even once at Speedy's. I remember starting to feel left out," Sherlock's tone turned lightly teasing, as he tried to lighten the tension.

"I remember," the doctor half-smiled. "It was one power show after another, with a side serving of Holmesian manipulation. But, yes, I see your point. I almost envy him, you know. It must be great to be able to look after your family with the assistance of all the CCTV's in the country, plus a fleet of government cars." He smiled sardonically.

The detective chuckled, though it was a bit strained. "It wasn't always like that, John," he said, in more serious tones. "He used to come, by himself, wearing his bespoke suits and Berluti dress shoes, to haul me out of the drug dens. Somehow, no matter in what state I found myself, I always managed to aim true and hurl on him. I used to aim mostly for his shoes, but once I managed to get vomit over his shoes, trousers, _and_ his Rolex watch. That's one of my best memories," Sherlock said dreamily.

"You, you little- " John sputtered. "You were a horrid little brat, weren't you? I can't imagine his face, oh God-" John choked off, suddenly convulsing in laughter. Sherlock joined in his mirth.

"That reminds me of the time I went to drag Harry home, when she was so pissed that she thought I was her girlfriend. The things she said, I needed a bottle of bleach to erase from my brain..."

John and Sherlock continued trading "war stories" for a time, and while the subject matter was one most would consider rather tragic, finding the humour in the less savory parts of life was something the duo was accustomed to. It certainly helped them deal with their unique lifestyle.

Sherlock found himself relaxing, and hoping that he wouldn't have to deal with more acrimony, on anyone's part, anytime soon. Playing peacemaker was exhausting.

* * *

"Is there anything you should be telling me, brother mine?"

"Good evening to you, too, Sherlock," Mycroft answered the phone calmly.

"Don't play games. I thought we were over that stage. Look, I know Lestrade is working on a case for you. He keeps telling me he's busy, and he has no cases to give me. When I went to the yard, he made a poor attempt to hide the documents he was viewing. He closed the computer, but I did get a glimpse. What exactly is Lestrade doing for the MoD, Mycroft?"

"Why would I know?" the British Government replied in the same calm tone.

"Don't make me laugh. Anyhow, I know you two have been in contact lately. So what is it, I get the information up front, or I need to find it myself? You know I'll get it either way."

"Sherlock, listen to me," Mycroft sighed in that exasperated-older-brother way. "It's not that we don't trust you. It's a very delicate matter, one in which you and Dr. Watson were somewhat personally involved, and the DI and I thought that it would be more advisable not to get you involved."

"Nevertheless, tell me about this matter. Let me decide for myself what I can handle, _for once._ " Sherlock let acid drip from his words.

His brother's sigh was deeper this time. "Alright, Sherlock. You are correct, this is your choice to make. Please come by my office tomorrow, as I don't wish to discuss this over the phone. Oh, and Sherlock? This once, come... by yourself."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** This chapter contains some angst, and this is only the beginning. Don't shoot the messenger, please? ;)

* * *

Mycroft sat with his hands clasped upon the desk, eying his brother soberly.

"Sherrinford has left us a bigger mess than we anticipated at first. We began investigating how and when my orders were first subverted, which allowed the disastrous events to eventually occur.

"We have traced the first orders for psychological evaluations back to a former Head Psychiatrist at Sherrinford, one Talia Bennett. She resigned about two years ago. We wanted to bring her in for questioning, but we couldn't find her."

Sherlock was assimilating the information with furrowed brows. "She did a runner, then?"

"More than that. She disappeared without a trace. We can't find any records for her, birth, schooling, work, anything at all. It's as if she never existed. She must have been thoroughly vetted by our security department to have been hired, yet it seems she wasn't who she professed to be."

"You think there was malicious intent? Or just an experiment gone wrong, perhaps, and she's hiding in fear of being brought to justice?"

"We can't know that until we have more facts. I've got some of my most trusted people on it, few as they may be. That's why I've also brought in DI Lestrade, although this isn't his department, strictly speaking. Being that he's already familiar with Sherrinford and a lot of Eurus's history, as well as Moriarty's, I felt he was uniquely suited to the task of assisting us. Not to mention that he is completely trustworthy and one of the best the Yard has to offer."

"What about NSY's consulting detective? Don't you trust _him_ to do a good job?" Sherlock asked acerbically.

"No need to take that tone with me, brother mine," Mycroft said condescendingly. "I thought you could use a small break after recent events, especially as this case deals with matters that are, as they say, close to home." He smiled ironically.

" _I_ will let _you_ know when I can use a break," the younger brother said petulantly. "I want this case. You can't just dump all the boring ones on me, and deny me the ones I wish to work on, all because of your ideas about what's good for me."

"I didn't say I won't give you the case, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, somewhat miffed. "In fact, seeing how complicated things are getting, I'll admit we need you. I only need you to do one thing for me before you can start. Promise me, and I mean _promise me,_ that you will let me know if things get... overwhelming."

Mycroft held his brother's gaze for several moments, as much steel in his eyes as there had been in his tone. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He looked down at his folded hands, and then up again at his brother. "I promise, Mycroft," he said quietly, resolutely.

Mycroft nodded, satisfied.

"Great, gotta go. Let me text John about-"

"Wait, Sherlock, I'm not finished. There's something else..." The Iceman looked conflicted and agonized at the same time. "About Dr. Watson. I'm not sure that he should be working on this case."

Sherlock froze. "You can't be serious," he hissed.

Mycroft looked down, refusing to meet his eyes.

"If this is some kind of petty revenge or one-upmanship, I'll have ever you know I won't play this game. How _dare_ you-"

"Don't," Mycroft interrupted him. "It's not what you think. In fact, this is not solely my decision. There are some things you aren't aware of... I don't think it's my place to say, but some people on my team don't trust Dr. Watson to be fully discreet. Because of the highly sensitive nature of this investigation, absolute discretion is vital."

"Don't give me that codswallop! If you would vouch for him, there wouldn't be an issue at all! What have they got against John, anyway? He's a seasoned doctor and an army veteran, plus he's been working on cases with me for years. What exactly makes him untrustworthy?"

Sherlock was now looming over his brother, fists clenched at his sides. Mycroft still refused to meet his eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock, this is exactly why I didn't want you to take the case at first. But this was bound to come up eventually, and there's only so far I can stall. So, before I give you more information, just tell me this. Do you believe that Dr. Watson, at this point in time, is fully stable and competent, and will keep a professional distance at all times, even when he may face emotional distress?"

"I don't understand," Sherlock whispered in bewilderment.

"This case has a high potential of emotional provocation, especially as it will involve our sister's extended incarceration, and investigating Moriarty's involvement, both of which your friend believes me to be at least partially at fault for. Of course, there is his personal suffering that was a result of the mistakes I made. Do you believe him to be capable of keeping his emotions at bay, without interfering in the investigation?"

Sherlock wanted to vociferously defend his friend. He wanted to punch his brother in the face for daring to malign the doctor so. He wanted to scream at everyone who had the sheer audacity to cast doubt upon the character of John Watson. Yet, as he had repeatedly learned, his actions had consequences, and he would think this through.

Instead, he retreated into his Mind Palace. He rifled through his recent memories of John. John, who forgave him for getting his wife killed. Who sat with him for hours on end, to prevent him from taking drugs again. Who laughed with him and ran with him once again. The noble doctor, who tried to calm the governor down before his end, but couldn't shoot him. The soldier, who met each challenge Eurus gave them with equanimity, and confronted her angrily when she killed the innocent brothers.

John, who had so recently turned his back on him, accusing him and maligning him for something he couldn't have helped. His friend, who had beat him in a rage, beat while he was lying helpless on the floor, and injured him enough to be hospitalized. John, who had never said "I'm sorry," for the physical and mental anguish he had caused.

John, who was betrayed by the therapist he trusted, and turned his rage on Mycroft. The same John that had chided him for his childish sibling rivalry, many moons ago, now gleefully planning to terrify said brother to the point of breakdown, and then humiliate him afterwards. The good doctor, who had encouraged Sherlock to play along, and Sherlock had jumped in without hesitation, knowing that John had his back.

John, who had cooperated so seamlessly with Mycroft, both acting their parts to get into Sherrinford. Who had seen what Mycroft was willing to do for his brother and friend, who had seen the gun Sherlock had pointed on his big brother's heart. And who had casually remarked, upon hearing that Mycroft had been locked up and was traumatized by it, that "What goes around, comes around," a sense of smug vindication in his voice.

John, his faithful blogger, who had spent the past couple of weeks being doted on by two old ladies, and playing with his little girl. Who now seemed to keep himself very busy, working as a doctor full time, and eager to start on cases. Who seemed less than eager to discuss his daughter, and how he would manage to raise her himself. Who still resented Mycroft, and would have sudden bursts of anger at Sherlock.

The detective quietly closed the door of John's room in his Mind Palace, pushing it tightly to keep back the overflow.

He opened his eyes, hurt and confusion swirling inside the blue orbs. "I don't know," he said simply. "I just don't know."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** It's great to see how many people read this story. I take that approval. Of course, your review would be more than welcome, too!

Anyway, things are heating up now. I wonder how many of you can guess what is going on;)

* * *

"Perhaps we can work something out," Mycroft said gently. "At a later date, when things are calmer."

Sherlock heard the unsaid words: _when we see that the doctor is calmer._

"I'll give you the file now," Mycroft said, more briskly. "Start with this, and we'll take it from there."

Sherlock nodded in acqueiscence. "Do you have any suspicions about her motives?"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "She could have been working for Moriarty, but more likely, she had her own agenda. There's something else that has nagged at me since our little trip on that island.

"Sherlock, as brilliant as our sister is, she's not a magician. She can reprogram people, but it takes a lot of work, and a lot of time. Not only that, but some people are more susceptible than others. I want to know how she managed to reprogram every single employee on the island without anyone on the outside getting suspicious. She must have done it in a very short time, and most likely had inside help."

"You suspect Bennett."

"She's definitely a suspect. As for motivations, I have no clue."

The detective perused the file in front of him, and then looked up resolutely. "I'm on it."

Then he eyed his brother steadily. "About John, there must have been precedence."

The British Government looked startled. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play me the fool. There was a piece of information that John divulged to the wrong parties, and that's why some people don't trust him. Now, once more, you can either tell me everything you know about that, or I will find out for myself."

"Your threats are getting tiresome, brother mine."

"Yet they stand. Will you forever be hiding information from me?"

"If there's anything to tell," Mycroft said gravely, "it isn't my place to do that."

"I see," said Sherlock thoughtfully. He would go straight to the source.

* * *

"I need your help in clearing up a misunderstanding," the detective told his friend.

"Glad to be of help, _Sir,_ " John said with exaggerated politeness.

Sherlock smiled. His friend seemed to be in a good mood, which would make everything easier.

"I need your help with some new case, but the client is a pretty paranoid type. Said he wants only me to work on it, and won't stand others involved."

"Perhaps you _should_ do it yourself then," John suggested. "Or just don't take the case. It's quite annoying to work with such types."

"Don't I know it," Sherlock sighed. "This case is at least a nine, and things are pretty dried up. And it definitely needs more manpower. So I suggested that only my trusted partner Dr. Watson will be involved."

"And?"

"He said he'll check you out. Has some connections apparently. Funny thing is, he comes back with some ridiculous story, and says he has people who vouched for its accuracy."

"Soooo?" The doctor's patience was beginning to stretch thin.

"He heard something about you letting slip some highly classified information. I said it must be a misunderstanding. We need to clear this up before this gets any further, you understand. I can't have some idiots spreading false rumours about my blogger."

John looked bewildered. "I have no idea of what they could be talking about."

"Alright. Let's try to narrow it down. First, think about what you know that could be considered strictly classified."

The doctor contemplated that for a few minutes. "I suppose that would rule out private cases. Which government cases did we do recently?"

"It doesn't necessarily have to be very recent. Probably in... well, we didn't do a lot of cases together recently, have we?" Sherlock mused. "Not since Mary-" He cut himself off with a wince.

John grimaced. "No, we haven't. So it must have been, well, before," he said very quietly.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted.

"No, it's- fine, I guess. It is what it is, right?"

"Definitely. So, about the case, what were we working on? It must have been something major for it to contain information of that stature," Sherlock hurried to change the topic.

"Hmm, there was Magnussen, and- hold on." John stopped abruptly. " _Who_ did you say your client was, again?"

"I didn't," the detective answered placidly, while watching his friend with a keen gaze.

John suddenly reeled as if he had been punched in the face. "I know exactly who he is," he hissed. "That bas- It was a mistake! I told it to a friend, a man we both trust, that's all! How _dare_ he-"

John broke off. He expression flitted from furious, to horrified, to fearful, and then furious again.

"I'm going to pay you client a little visit," he said resolutely.

"John, please, think it over. Let me explain!"

"You're not the one who has the explaining to do."

"Don't do anything rash. Believe me, it won't help matters," Sherlock all but pleaded.

"Don't worry, I won't kill him. Yet." John spun around and headed for the door.

"John, please," Sherlock tried again, but there was no one there to hear him anymore.

* * *

It was, as some Yankee once said, deja vu all over again. John Watson had come to confront Mycroft Holmes in his inner sanctum, his office in the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft had several minutes warning this time, as Sherlock had called to warn him. He would need every ounce of his diplomatic skills to get through this one, but then again, his skills probably wouldn't help much. They never did, on John Watson.

Dr. Watson was an upright man, who would answer only to the truth. Brave to the point of stupidity, but then again, weren't they the same thing? He wasn't intimidated easily, and definitely not when he was in the pursuit of justice. Or believed himself to be.

And that was the issue in a nutshell. Would the doctor recognize that this time, his efforts may be misplaced? That the war he was gearing to fight, had no underpinnings in moral code, only in blind anger? Mycroft hoped so.

When his door burst open to reveal a fuming doctor marching in, Mycroft got out of his seat and began to slowly approach the man.

"Dr. Watson," the Iceman began, in what he hoped was a placating tone. "Please, let's discuss this calmly and ration-"

"How could you!" the doctor snarled. "I finally have him back, and you're determined to destroy everything! Tell me, is it jealousy? Is it that you can't stand that Sherlock actually _likes_ me and wants to spend time with me? While he could never stand you, and your overbearing company? I'm beginning to see his point, you know. A couple of weeks in your company, and look what happens! You had to feed him stories about me, mix truth with lies- "

"Dr. Watson!" Mycroft interrupted, losing his calm facade as the hurtful accusations went on and on. "I did not lie to my brother-"

It was hard to tell which one of the two men were more surprised when the ex-soldier punched the British Government in the face.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** I don't know the exact procedures for police interrogations, so sorry if I messed anything up. I love to hear your thoughts, so do share if you can:) Enjoy!

* * *

John froze in place, his fist still suspended in midair. To his credit, Mycroft gave a barely imperceptible wince before calmly reaching for his handkerchief and holding it to his bleeding nose.

John was feeling a mixture of horror at having physically attacked the British Government himself, and the rush of euphoria that came with the release of his rage. He slowly put his fist down, and then stared mutinously at Mycroft, daring him to respond in kind.

What he found in the Iceman's gaze left him surprised him and terrified him. Instead of the expected fury and loathing, he found only pity, and even a hint of compassion. Coming from Mycroft, that was terrifying, indeed.

"Dr. Watson," the government worker said quietly, his voice softened with a strange kind of concern. "This isn't war. We are all on the same side. I would have hoped you could understand that."

 _Only Mycroft Holmes could sound so officious while clutching a handkerchief to a bleeding nose,_ John thought, then nearly snorted out loud. _I bet Sherlock could do it, too._ And then all humor disappeared, and a wave of fear nearly engulfed him.

"Why did you do it?" he asked the bleeding man plaintively, feeling his voice catch. "Couldn't you leave me the one thing I still had? Was it too much for you to contemplate someone else's contentment, or was it deliberate?"

Mycroft was shaking his head slowly. "Dr. Watson, I've learnt my lesson about keeping secrets from my brother. It backfires. He would have found out at a later point, and the fallout would have been worse."

"I don't understand why this had to be brought up at all." The doctor's voice had turned harder, accusatory.

"The cases, Dr. Watson. Sherlock needs his cases, and it was inevitable that he would find out that you won't be working on all of them with him."

"What I want to know," the doctor said flatly, "is how you convinced Lestrade not to let me work on cases anymore."

Mycroft's voice was now genuinely compassionate, and John knew that he was done for. "It was the other way around, actually. And Dr. Watson, I wish it weren't that way. You have done for my brother more than I ever could, and I don't wish to see any complications between you two."

Through his still smoldering anger, John acknowledged that Mycroft had cut to the heart of the matter; his fear of losing Sherlock once again. That overwhelming fear was the driving force behind his actions today, though there were other factors fueling him.

Ever the soldier, he knew when to retreat from a losing battle. "I will be speaking to Lestrade."

"That is a good plan, indeed," Mycroft agreed amiably. He strode over to his chair and sat down heavily, clasping his hands beneath his chin. Staring at the wall, he added softly, "One thing I have learned, Dr. Watson, is that our actions have consequences. I have made many decisions over the years, some which I stand by, some which I regret, and some of which I'm not sure about. Every one of them has produced consequences, which I needed to accept and live by, even if I might have wished otherwise." He sighed softly.

John merely looked at him, and then subconsciously rubbed his bruised knuckles.

"I do hope I won't hear of any _incidents_ occurring at Scotland Yard," Mycroft added blandly, his expression and tone instantly changing into the persona he had played at their first meeting. For the first time, John grasped what Sherlock had meant to relay when he referred to Mycroft as "the most dangerous man you will ever meet."

He left the room without another word.

* * *

They were waiting outside of Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard.

Sherlock had taken one look at John and quietly told him, "My brother isn't me, John. He doesn't respond to the same methods."

Although John had hidden his hands in his pockets, it was obvious that Sherlock had deduced what happened- and didn't approve.

"I've realized that," John responded dryly, and then all but dragged Sherlock to NSY, where he hoped lay the key to to the resolution of their impediments.

"Are you sure you want to do this, John?" Lestrade asked him again, when he readied himself to pull up the recording.

"Absolutely. I want Sherlock to judge for himself whether you're making a mountain out of a molehill. Which I am confident he will do when he hears it."

"Your choice, mate," Greg shrugged, not sounding too pleased.

Minutes later, Lestrade's voice echoed through the room.

 _I keep wondering if we should have seen it coming._

Then John's voice filtered through the recorder, nevertheless clearly identifiable.

 _Not long ago, he shot Charles Magnussen in the face. We_ did _see it coming. We_ always _saw it coming. But it was_ fun.

Greg clicked the recording off and folded his hands over his desk. John was observing Sherlock's reaction. The man's face could be carved from stone, as his expression didn't even twitch.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"That's it," the DI confirmed, and the two men exchanged a long glance.

"So," John spoke up, their silent conversation making him uneasy. "Can you do anything about this, Sherlock? It just sort of slipped out, with all that was going on. And it was only Greg. You trust Greg too, don't you?" he turned to his friend expectantly.

Sherlock didn't respond, nor did he turn to face him.

Lestrade broke the silence by slapping a hand on the desk, forcefully. "You don't understand, John, do you? This was an official police interview. We weren't alone. The Chief Inspector was at the other side of the two-way mirror, as he was very wary of the DI who worked with Sherlock, who was then a suspect. And don't forget the policeman at the door. And what about me? Do you think I really wanted to hear this information?"

"But, but I thought you knew!" John whispered, the blood leaving his face.

"I knew Magnussen was shot in an operation, and that Sherlock was somehow involved. That's it. I'm a DI for Scotland Yard, and I don't need, nor do I want, to have extra information that doesn't pertain to my work here. _Do you understand that?_ "

"I'm sorry," John said contritely.

"Are you really? Do you know what I had to go through to get the Chief to sit on this? You ,ight want to ask Mycroft Holmes how much effort he put into convincing him that this was a classified MI5 operation, and not a scandalous cover up. And convincing the policeman who overheard of the same. Do you realize what could have happened had this been uncovered?" Lestrade was practically fuming at this point.

"Please, Greg, he didn't know," Sherlock spoke up suddenly.

"I'm sorry, John. I don't mean to be harsh. I just want you to understand the gravity of what you did. Every single person involved in this situation would have paid harsh penalties. Mycroft, and the other government officials involved, would have lost there positions, or worse. And Sherlock... well, you can imagine. I confronted Mycroft about this, and he felt he had no choice but to tell me everything. Sherlock did a very brave but foolish thing, and it's best if it never gets discussed again. Understood?"

"Understood," John nodded shakily.

"Please, John," Greg added, in a gentler voice. "We've been mates for a long time. I want to continue working with you, I really do. But perhaps you need to take a break for a bit, figure out how to make yourself better and stronger, hmm?"

"Thank you, Greg," Sherlock answered in John's stead. "We have some things to discuss. We'll be in touch."

They refused offers of tea and left quietly.

At Baker Street, Sherlock addressed his best friend, in gentle tones. "You are not to blame, John. You weren't quite as aware of your surroundings, and you were worked up. You didn't even realize that you let the secret slip."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

His friend nodded in acceptance. Then he added, in nearly a whisper. "There's something else I don't understand."

John looked at his friend, whose face now portrayed bewilderment, and was that hurt?

"You shot that cabbie for me, John. You saved my life. I shot Magnussen to save _you._ I thought that's what friends do. I thought you understood that."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Thank you to all who continue to read this story! And thanks again to all who reviewed, followed, and faved. I'll be honest, this is my first attempt at a real case!fiction, and I'm not too sure about it. Do you want to see more of the case, or should I mainly focus on the relationships, with the case as a minor aside? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

* * *

"I didn't mean it, Sherlock," John protested weakly.

"Forget it," Sherlock said abruptly. "I need to go out. I'll let you get back home."

"What about the case?" John asked hopefully.

"Oh, that. Honestly, I don't know where it's going, and where it will take me. You might not want to be on it if it involves traveling out of the country for weeks."

"Why- oh, you mean Rosie. Of course," John smiled thinly. "How nice of you to be concerned."

"You named me godfather. I take my responsibilities seriously," Sherlock said, aiming for a light tone. He left the flat, letting John see himself out. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he was abandoning his friend.

His transport was walking by itself, functioning without input from the hard drive. Sherlock was quite surprised, when he woke up from his reverie, to find himself on the roof of St. Bart's. His subconscious had taken him there, and he needed to figure out why.

He disappeared into his Mind Palace, searching. Moriarty was there, as usual, gloating, taunting, and mocking. Sherlock knew that it wasn't quite proper to give his enemy such prominent quarters in his own mind, but honestly, Moriarty hadn't asked. Besides, he needed a symbol of adversity when fighting his internal demons.

"How's your little pet doing?" Jim asked gleefully.

"Go away," Sherlock said tiredly. "I don't want to play today."

"Oh, honey, are you feeling alright?" Jim asked mockingly. "Are you in pain? Is your heart _burning_?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I won, Jim. You and your associates were de-fanged, and I'm still here."

"Yes, you are. You figured out the final problem: staying alive." Moriarty hummed a few notes of the "Stayin' Alive" song. "But I won, too. I _burrrned_ through heart out of you, didn't I? How sad, Sherlock's little friend betrayed him. Now Sherlock is all aloooone again. I'm crying in sympathy."

"He had every right to be angry. I caused Mary's death. And he forgave me for that. He _saved_ me. He confronted Culverton Smith for me. If that isn't evidence that he cares, than what is?"

"Johnny the doctor. Johnny the soldier. Johnny the hero. Always saving people. That's what Johnny _does_!"

"He did it for me," Sherlock argued, an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat.

"He so loves saving you. You are such a great distraction for him. You give him his adrenalin rushes, and you feed right into his hero complex. It's so heartwarming to watch. What happens when you try to save him? Hmmmm? Does he even realize when you do?"

"That's _different,_ " Sherlock gritted out. " It's John. You can't expect an ordinary mind to grasp even what seems obvious to us. Sometimes, he just doesn't _understand._ He still thinks my two year hiatus was one long string of case-solving. He doesn't understand why I had to shoot Magnussen. He thought my mission in Eastern Europe was a six-month adventure. I couldn't expect him to act differently."

The consulting criminal laughed in glee. "Oh, poor Sherlock, defending his little doctor. Of course he doesn't understand." He suddenly turned deadly serious, a fire burning in his dark eyes. He grabbed Sherlock by his upper arm and shook him. "Tell me, my dear detective, did he even _try_?"

The detective didn't respond.

"I won, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said softly, before shooting himself in the head, again.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, and he was once again gazing at the empty rooftop.

* * *

"I need a list of all the staff members during Bennett's time of operation, with full details. I will be searching her former place of residence. I need the current resident out."

Sherlock was on a roll. His heart was throbbing with the thrill of the chase. _Instead of hurt and confusion, but now was not the time to think about that. He had a case to solve._

"She hasn't lives there for over two years," Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Nevertheless," Sherlock insisted.

The DI agreed with a put-upon sigh, which belied his relief that Sherlock seemed alright. He hoped that John and him had worked things out between themselves. The last thing London needed was a fresh rift between the duo.

"There are some things missing here," the consulting detective furrowed his brow. "The Why and the How. If we knew the motivation, or the methods, I would have more to go on. We know Who, or we think we do. The when we can narrow down to a specific time frame. The where is obvious... Oh!" Sherlock jumped up.

"We need to search Sherrinford. Get her records, analyze the handwriting. If there's anything of hers that's left behind, that would be wonderful." Sherlock was dialing on his mobile while he spoke.

"I need access to Sherrinford," he said firmly, without any sort of greeting. "Full access. Records, rooms, each everything." He listened for a moment. "Yes, _of course_ you would send me with a minder. Don't worry, I won't touch anything without permission. I'm wounded to the core. My own brother doesn't trust me. When I need it? Yesterday."

He put down the phone and rolled his eyes. Greg swallowed a smirk. The Holmes brother's were anything but ordinary, but their sibling rivalry was just so bloody typical. Sherlock flounced out of the room without a goodbye. As much as things changed, some things stayed the same. In some way, Greg liked that.

* * *

"Alright, this is what I have in the meantime," Sherlock swooped into the DI's office two days later. "No handwriting samples, she was thorough I'm her cleanup. But I've got an old wallet of hers. Take a look," he handed it over to Greg.

It was a rather worn maroon wallet, but of good quality. It was also empty. In the front, on the right-hand corner, there were two embossed letters: E and D.

"You're sure it's hers?"

"I interviewed a former guard, who admitted to stealing it from her," Sherlock smirked.

"You think those are her real initials? It might be from a previous alias. We aren't sure how many she had."

"It's worn and out of style, bought about forty-five years back. She kept it out of sentiment. Why would she do it if it wasn't her real name?"

"Hmm, I see. Wait, perhaps it was inherited from someone else, her mother or aunt or something?"

"Perhaps. But look at what I found in her previous residence."

A small gold chain was laid down on the DI's desk. The charm hanging from it was engraved with the same two letters."

"I found this caught between the floorboards. This one isn't as old as the other one. About thirty years, I would say. It's a pretty generic style, not custom made. Still, I'm confident that those are her real initials."

"Great, so now we only have to investigate every individual with the initials ED," Greg said sarcastically.

Sherlock gave him a look that said, "Are you being stupid _on purpose_?" Then he shrugged nonchalantly. "Every individual who's also female, in her sixties or seventies, between five foot five and five foot seven, according to descriptions, and has a higher education, in the field of medicine or psychology probably, or both."

"Alright, alright. I wasn't thinking too clearly, I suppose." Lestrade rubbed his forehead.

"Take a break, Lestrade. Take the time to smell some flowers. I can't have the only half-decent DI in the yard slipping due to stress."

"Shut up," the DI grumped, but he did it good-naturedly.

"I did some more research into the staff," Sherlock said, suddenly gravely serious. "All of the people who were working on the island when Eurus took control, gave a similar account. They were brought to talk to Eurus about two months before the takeover, and had about five sessions each.

"They described the sessions as mostly a blur. But ever since the first session, they've been afraid, paranoid even. They began doubting themselves. They began doubting everyone and everything around them. The only thing that calmed them down was a session with Eurus, where they felt secure and at peace. As soon as they left, they began to feel confused once more. They listened to her, because she managed to convince them on a very deep level that listening to her would keep them safe."

"That sounds horrific," Greg breathed.

"It is," Sherlock said grimly. "There's more. The only ones who had steady contact with her over the past five years were the governor and the Deputy Chief Psychiatrist."

"And who is that?"

"Dr. Taylor."

"The one who, who," Greg couldn't finish the thought.

"Who killed his family and then committed suicide. The ones who have the answers are either dead, vanished, or...," Sherlock paused. "Lost in their own mind."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** I've been a bit busy, so this chapter is a bit short. I hope to be back soon with a longer chapter:) Please consider reviewing if there's anything you have to say. I'd love to hear from you!

Notice: I've put two polls on my profile to get an idea of what you would like to see written next. Please take a moment to check it out!

* * *

The duo of the detective and the doctor were back in business. It was business as usual. Or not quite, John mused. Their was something off with their relationship. Sherlock was colder, more businesslike in their interactions. There was no more giggling at crime scenes, stopping for a bite at Angelo's, or getting up to mischief only for the sake of annoying everyone around them.

Sherlock, of course, was still working privately on Mycroft's case. John would have been OK with that, except for the fact that it wasn't John's decision. He felt the ice between them slowly grow into an iceberg, and knew their friendship was sinking.

John Watson was no fool. He knew that his previous actions and attitude had deeply hurt Sherlock, and there was something about the recording that had driven him over the edge. He didn't completely understand. Sherlock had been acting off his rocker, and everyone thought he was heading for the loony bin. What was it about what he had said that was so bad?

He began going through his days like the soldier he had been; doing his duty, but taking no initiative. Slowly, he felt himself losing his joie de vivre. When he smiled at Rosie, it didn't reach his eyes. When he inquired about his patients' health, his tone was more professional than warm. He was afraid that he was going to lose himself.

Until something came along, and dragged him out of his doldrums. Or rather, someone.

* * *

The Holmes family made their first visit to Sherrinford on a nice, balmy day. The senior Holmes still weren't speaking to their eldest son. In fact, they were reluctant to have his presence at the island. However, Sherlock had insisted that they either go all together, or he wouldn't show.

Sherlock began reaching out to his sister, sending tendrils of music in her direction. They pierced her through her consciousness, and she reached back out to him. Back and forth, they communicated with their violins, until their melodies melded and became one.

Mummy Holmes wiped her tears, her maternal instincts of overflowing. Blindly, she reached out and grasped the hand beside her, seeking comfort and stability. Mycroft gently squeezed back, recognizing his mother's need for reassurance. He wondered if his mother had truly forgiven, or only temporarily forgotten.

On the way home, when they were about to part ways, Mummy beamed at her sons and said that they would need to visit again. It was as if there was never a rift that tore them all apart. Mycroft reassured his parents that he would put the arrangements in place, and then entered the black car that would take him and Sherlock back to London.

"You don't plan on coming with us again," the detective stated evenly, giving his brother a hard look.

"Indeed," Mycroft responded, the tiniest of tremors apparent in his voice. "Today was more than enough."

"You didn't tell them that," Sherlock pressed.

"They just got their daughter back. I didn't want to ruin their happy moment." A slight hint of bitterness crept into his voice.

Sherlock was suddenly awash in a feeling of helplessness. As much as he tried to help everyone, he felt that his track record of successes was abysmal. Eurus was still in Sherrinford, and would never leave. His parents might be overjoyed with her progress, but that fact would soon hit them- hard. And Mycroft was feeling about the way he was being treated. One moment he was an outcast, and the next he was supposed to pretend that nothing had ever happened.

Then there was John. So many obstacles between them, hurts and misunderstandings. Would they manage to work things out?

The younger Holmes leaned his head against the car window and shut his eyes tight, willing reality to crawl away.

* * *

"I have an IT expert working on international databases, searching for profile matches," Mycroft reported. "Where are you taking this now?"

Sherlock paced in the Whitehall office, vibrating with the energy of a case in progress. "I'm researching patterns of compromised security in similar institutions, and the staff involved. What occurred in Sherrinford was definitely unique in scale, but there seems to be some incidents that follow the same pattern. For example, thirteen years ago in an Australian institution, a guard complained about suicidal thoughts being planted in his head, and followed through. The investigators wrote it off as an incident of schizophrenia. I am in the midst of further investigation."

"Do be careful. We don't want to ruffle too many feathers, now, do we?"

Sherlock bristled at Mycroft's condescending tone. "I know what I'm doing, Mycroft. I'm not an idiot."

"I know that," his brother retorted. In a gentler tone, he added, "I trust you, Sherlock."

The younger brother gave a half smile, acknowledging the compliment. There was once a time he would have scoffed at it, but the recent events had given him a new perspective, and he couldn't take his brother's faith in him for granted, anymore.

"At least someone does," he responded sardonically.

Mycroft's eyes opened wide. "I'm sure that Dr. Watson has the utmost trust in you, despite-"

"DON'T lecture me about what John does or doesn't think about me" Sherlock said angrily. "You have no clue about any relationship whatsoever, let alone something as plebeian as freindship."

Mycroft's cynical mask was slipping, and his hurt was showing through. "You're right. I don't. I'm sorry for attempting to interfere."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "No, no, that's... that wasn't what I intended to communicate. I... I appreciate your attempt to set me at ease," he said awkwardly, being pretty unaccustomed to showing his gratitude to his brother.

"I remember what John said at my gravesite," Sherlock reminisced. "Something about me being very human. He wrote on the blog that I was his best friend and he will always believe in me. Then I came back, and found a man who was upset at me. I found a man who was willing to make peace, but never stopped being suspicious. This was the breaking point,if you will. Hearing him going on about me being destined to become- to become what he expected I had become- I wonder if he still believes that."

Mycroft, not being skilled in the art of empathy, nor being convinced that his brother would appreciate it from him, silently offered Sherlock a cigarette. They retired to a smoking lounge, and finished their smoke in shared silence.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Thank you to all who reviewed:) There's a poll on my profile, regarding which characters you'd like to see more of. Please take a moment to fill it out!

* * *

Sherlock had been working the Kellerman case with John for the past week, in the times he wasn't focusing on the Bennett case. Kellerman was a businessman who had disappeared, leaving no note to either his family or business associates.

John had begged off for the weekend, as he had done for weeks now. Sherlock was glad he had the extra time to spend with Rosie. No matter which way he looked at it, he felt responsible for her welfare. Mary had sacrificed her life for him, and he owed it to her to look after her most precious asset. Rosie's father had saved him on many occasions, and the little girl was the darling of both Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Additionally, he had been appointed godfather, and although he doubted he could become the 'fun uncle' in the little girl's life, he hoped to ensure that she received as much love and attention as possible.

On that Sunday, however, Sherlock had urgent need of John Watson's assistance. He had followed a hunch that Kellerman had disappeared, of his own volition, in the English countryside, due to some bad debts. He had come upon a time-sensitive lead, and was afraid that involving the police would interfere with his 'unconventional methods.'

John wasn't picking up his phone. Neither was he at his flat. Sherlock tried Molly Hooper on a whim. She didn't know where John was, but she did have Rosie with her for the weekend. Suspicion bloowing in his mind, Sherlock asked her if Rosie had spent the last weekend with her too. She had, as well as two other weekends in the past five weeks.

The detective forced himself to speak politely to Molly, bidding her farewell, and reassuring her that he was sure John was alright. He then stood rooted in place, brow furrowed in consternation. What the hell was John playing at?

* * *

Molly was shushing Rosie, sprawled over her shoulders. She loved the weekends she got to spend with the blue-eyed little angel. Sometimes, she allowed herself to fantasize that the baby was hers, and that soon the baby's dad, her husband, would come home, and they would have a happy, lovely evening together.

She would chuckle bitterly when she awoke from such fantasies. Molly Hooper was alone, and she was tired of it. The pathologist was never the most sociable of people, too shy and awkward to "make it" in the world. There was a reason she preferred to work with the dead. They always listened, and never once did they judge, or mock. Her social life consisted mostly of a high-functioning sociopath, and his motley associates.

Her romantic history consisted of one disaster after another, and she didn't particularly want to ruminate about that. Sherlock had been right, all those years ago, when he had warned her off romantic relationships, she thought wryly.

"She really suits you," said a voice from the doorway. "You should get one for yourself."

Molly wondered if her mother had read her thoughts. Her mother continued, "I don't get why you stay in your position. You could have gone into research, and made a name for yourself. You would have been widely published, and the men would be knocking down your door."

"I like my job, Mum" Molly answered tiredly, as she had countless times before. Oh yes, she wasn't as alone as she had thought. She had her mother back in her life, and was hating every miserable second.

* * *

Mycroft seemed to be in a contrary mood. No surprise there, Sherlock thought, it was Mycroft, after all. He was just a bit more to the extreme today. It seemed that everything was catching up to him; Sherrinford, Eurus, their parents, his career. _He's a big boy, he'll get through it,_ Sherlock reassured himself.

"I need to find John," the detective told his brother, getting straight to the point.

"Another little domestic?" Mycroft drawled smugly.

"He's not picking up his phone," Sherlock responded, his irritation growing.

"He is perfectly within his rights to do so," the Iceman responded calmly.

"He's also perfectly within his rights to be leaving his daughter every weekend, yet it's out of character for him, and I'm getting concerned."

It seemed that Mycroft was beginning to share his concern, because he dropped his blase attitude. "I'll see what I can do."

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft called back with the address of an hotel in Berkshire. He cautioned Sherlock to "not to get involved," whatever that meant, but that wasn't an option from the younger Holmes. He was already too deeply involved to remain removed from the situation.

Sherlock found his friend relaxing in the garden, next to a a woman in her thirties. John suddenly caught the detective's gaze and sprang up, looking alarmed. "Sherlock? Is everything alright? Is..." he trailed off, looking at his companion anxiously.

"Rosie is alright," Sherlock said shortly, looking towards the younger woman.

"Oh, God, you scared me. Err, let me introduce you to Nancy. Nancy, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes."

Nancy beamed up at him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I've heard so much about you!" she exclaimed in her heavy Australian accent.

Sherlock returned the pleasantries, and they shook hands. The young woman turned to John questioningly. "John? Who's Rosie?"

John flushed bright red. "Er, yeah, that was something I wanted to talk to you about, in- in the near future. Um, I'm just going to be a few moments, alright, dear?"

Sherlock turned to Nancy again. "So, how long have you known John?"

"Oh, blimey, must be over two months already." She looked up at John with an endearing expression of admiration. "We've been going out for a month, now. He's fantastic!" she giggled.

"Okay, we'll be back," John said hastily, and dragged Sherlock back inside, finding an empty conference room and shutting the door.

The detective looked at him quietly.

"What," John said shortly.

"What's going on, John?" Sherlock's voice had a distinct edge to it.

"This is _my_ business, and I don't need to answer to you," John said, his voice hard.

"She doesn't know, does she? About Mary, or Rosie, or anything about you, correct?"

The doctor clenched his teeth. "And if she doesn't? What of it?"

"That's not quite fair. I've seen the way she looks at you. You're not ready for a committed relationship with her, are you? How will she feel when she finds out you've been lying to her?"

"I can't believe this!" John exploded. "What are you, my bloody conscience? Sherlock Holmes, who got _engaged_ to solve a case! Remember Janine? And what about Molly Hooper, leading her on for years, and crushing her beneath your heels while you used her?"

The doctor's words hit Sherlock hard. He stood in place, breathing heavily, until he managed to say, very softly, " You're right. I, of all people, don't have any right to lecture you. Perhaps I'm holding you to an impossible standard. You- you were always my conductor of light, John. I've used you as sort of a moral barometer. If you approved, I felt justified in my actions. If you didn't, I would think at least think twice. It wasn't fair to expect that from you. You're human after all."

The doctor was to flabbergasted to answer. Sherlock continued. "What about Rosie? When was the last time you spent quality time with her?"

John's eyes widened even more. "Sherlock, I wasn't aware that my parenting was your department."

"You made me godfather. You and Mary. I owe it to Mary, at least, to look after her daughter, after she did for me."

"You can't," the doctor choked up. "You just don't get it. Rosie does not need someone as damaged as me. I- I've messed up with everyone- everyone I've ever had a relationship with. With Mary..." John sniffed. "I cheated on her, and I couldn't- couldn't protect her. My relationship with Harry is the pits. I have a best friend who treats me like a stranger- no, don't protest, you know it's true. I'm a broken, messed up man. Rosie is in loving hands, she doesn't need me to mess her up, too."

Sherlock looked at his friend, his expression heartbroken. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how to make everything better. I solve crimes, not... relationship issues. I only know that whatever state you're in, it's... a bit not good."

"I would never have guessed," John said flatly.

"You need to get yourself together," Sherlock said bluntly. "I'll be with you for the journey. You're still my blogger, and my best friend. Yet it's up to you to start."

"Get myself together? You would know all about it, Mr. High-functioning Sociopath."

The said sociopath stiffened. "When you make that decision, you know where to find me. I owe it to Mary. I owe it to you. I won't play along with this game anymore. Goodbye, John."

Sherlock left, and his friend didn't call after him.

* * *

Sherlock called Greg to back him up in the Kellerman case, which was summarily solved when Sherlock's lead was proven correct. They retired to the DI's office to wrap things up. The consulting detective wasn't on his usual post-case high, and Lestrade was concerned.

"Pity John couldn't make it," the DI said, attempting conversation.

"Pity," Sherlock responded listlessly.

"How's the Bennett case?" Lestrade changed the subject.

"I've got a list of thirty-seven likely suspects. I'll need some help in checking them out. Is your clearance arranged?"

Greg half-smiled. "You know your brother," he said wryly.

"Unfortunately. I'll give you a partial list, and tell you what to keep an eye out for."

They worked together in companionable silence.

* * *

John returned to his girlfriend, to find her in a state of anxiety. "What's wrong, John? Is it related to this Rosie, whoever she is?"

The doctor had dreaded this conversation, and had hoped to push it off for longer. Far, far longer. When he met the charming young pharmacist, a recent Australian immigrant, she had symbolized a fresh start, unconnected to his complicated past.

Nancy was only vaguely aware of a Sherlock Holmes, a detective of sorts, and John had simply informed her that he sometimes assisted on cases, and blogged about them. Nancy was refreshingly blase about it, laughingly proclaiming that she was more into the medical sciences than the criminal ones. She had never read his blog.

He hadn't intended to deceive her. John just took their relationship further, one step at a time, each time telling himself that he would tell her soon, soon enough. He began leaving Rosie at Molly's each weekend, and spending more and more time with Nancy. This weekend at the hotel had been splendid, a chance for John to just be a regular bloke with a girlfriend, instead of a broken widower, single parent, brother of a hopeless alcoholic, not to mention estranged friend of a sociopathic consultant detective.

Until Sherlock had ruined it.

He spilled the beans to Nancy, who took it about as well as expected. She ranted, she cried, she accused. "I would have been fine with this, John. I might have waited for you to be ready. But you deceived me."

Their relationship was over. John was left heartbroken, and wondering what was left of the other relationships in his life.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** I don't know if the plot makes any sense at all to you, but I hope it does;) Enjoy!

* * *

John dragged himself to the only safe place he could think of. When seeing Molly's concerned face, something inside of him unraveled and he nearly cried.

"John!" Molly exclaimed. "Is everything alright? You were supposed to be back tomorrow!"

"No, no, everything's fine," John hurriedly reassured her. "It's just... can I come in?"

"Oh, sorry," Molly blushed as she stepped aside.

"Hello, John," Molly's mother greeted him, observing him with her hawk-like gaze. "Things didn't go as planned?"

Not for the first time, John wondered how someone as sweet as Molly could share blood ties with a woman as disagreeable as Marge Hooper. "I guess not," he said shortly. "Where's Rosie?" he turned to the pathologist.

"Sleeping already. Err, perhaps you'd like to take the sofa for tonight? My mother's in the guest room, so..."

"I'll give you two some privacy," Marge said with a loud sniff, and went to her room.

John could hardly wait another moment before breaking down. "It's over. I ruined it," he bit out before the tears came.

"Oh, John, I'm sorry. She probably wasn't good enough for you if she-"

"No, Molly. I don't mean Nancy. It's Sherlock."

Molly handed him a box of tissues, and he poured his sorry tale into her sympathetic ears.

"Tell me, Molly, what kind of man am I? Be honest. I can't go on like this. I need to know."

The pathologist remained quiet, looking off into the distance.

"You don't have the right to give up on yourself, John," she finally said, softly.

"Maybe I'm just acknowledging reality," he said cynically.

She didn't answer, just gave him a disappointed look.

* * *

"Sherlock, take a look at this one," Greg urged.

Sherlock sprang up nimbly and approached the DI's computer. He quickly scanned the file. Elaine Dyson. There was something niggling at his brain, an internal alarm that wasn't loud, but was persistent. He pushed it to the side, and concentrated on the data he was reading.

Born in Chicago, Elaine had received a degree in biochemistry from an Ivy League University. She had gone on to do research for a pharmaceutical company for several years. Then there was a gap of several years, until she went to work for the government.

The pattern repeated itself. Large gaps in her work history, followed by several years of work. Sherlock checked her residential history. She was officially residing in America all of this time. The detective smelled a rat, however. He began digging further, and discovered that the addresses on file were either bogus, or there was no record of Dyson having resided in them.

"I'm not sure at this point," he told Lestrade, "but my gut tells me this is the one. The gaps coincide with some of the suspicious incidents I've researched."

"What now?" Lestrade asked gravely. "For some reason, I don't think it will be too easy to find her."

"Shut up," said Sherlock, and disappeared into his Mind Palace.

 _Elaine, Dyson, Dyson, I've seen the name before. Face? None. Context? Wait, the "D_ _" in Dyson is different, bigger, bolder. Acronym, perhaps? Yes, last letter in an acronym. Leonard_ ** _H_** _ansen, Jack **O** 'Mara, Mary **U** slowski, Rick **N** ader, Elaine **D** yson. **H.O.U.N.D.**_

Sherlock snapped out of his semi-trance.

"That's it," he said briskly. "They've been drugged!"

* * *

John woke up in the morning, hardly more well rested than the night before. The sofa and his lingering nightmares weren't a recipe for peaceful sleep. He washed up and went to get his daughter, babbling away at Molly in the kitchen.

He picked her up and held on to her tightly, as if clinging to a lifesaver. "Rosie, did you miss your daddy?" he whispered into her hair, as she giggled and swatted at him.

"John," Molly began uncertainly. "There's something I wanted to tell you."

"I'm listening," he said guardedly.

"Perhaps we should have some breakfast first?" she said nervously.

Molly bustled around preparing a hearty repast as John entertained Rosie. While they ate, Molly gave voice to her thoughts. "You know how much Rosie means to me. I love having her so much that I might have overlooked that I might have been wrong to take her."

John sighed deeply. "Are you getting on my case, too, Molly?"

"I definitely am!" she shot back with more passion than John had ever heard in her voice. "She needs you, and you're avoiding her! Today is the first time you've really paid attention to her in weeks! Sherlock was right, John. You need to get yourself together, and stop escaping reality."

"It hurts, Molly," the doctor said, an expression of deep anguish etched on his face. "Every time I look at Rosamund, I think of her mother. How I failed her. I'm not coping."

"So why are you trying to pretend everything's fine?"

"I just need some time," he insisted stubbornly.

"You need help."

"From whom, another therapist? Which one should I choose, an incompetent one, or one who wants to blow my head off?"

Molly sighed and shook her head. "I don't know. But you do need to try, you know? You have friends. Why don't you let us help you? Talk to us. Let us in."

John squeezed his eyes shut. "I've never really let myself be helped, have I? Mary knew me very well. That's why she left the DVD for Sherlock."

"Maybe you should give it a try?" Molly asked gently.

"You know, life is ironic. I'm ready and willing, but right now, I'm afraid Sherlock is not."

* * *

"The H.O.U.N.D. drug, as you call it, has been nicknamed the 'Trust and Trepidation Drug.' It not only makes one fear, but lowers the defenses and makes one unusually susceptible to suggestion."

Mycroft delivered his monologue in a very somber tone. This was no trivial matter. People had likely been experimented on with mind-altering drugs, and it had taken place under his very nose.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Remarkable. So little Henry Knight was easily influenced by a single word he saw, to build an entire fantasy world. Hypothetically, if someone would offer suggestions to the subject under the influence of the drug, the subject would be very likely to take that as fact."

"According to the small amount of research I have done, it wouldn't be quite as simple. To put it simply, the drug focuses on stimulating the amygdala, where it stimulates fear by associated memory. Ones own brain supplies the memories and expectations associated with the stimulus. One would have to have intimate knowledge of the subject's thought processes and experiences to be able to mold them accordingly."

Sherlock began pacing. "Then there was more than one piece to the puzzle. Obviously. Let's say Bennett, a.k.a Dyson, was focused on the studying the affects of the drugs. She got herself employed in various high-security prisons over the years, and conducted her experiments there. She used the opportunity to get close to various individuals, and figure out how to manipulate their fears to her advantage."

"Close. You're forgetting Eurus and the interviews."

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed in triumph. "She would need an accomplice. Someone with great insight into human weaknesses and experience manipulating people. What better place to find that than a prison housing dangerous criminal psychopaths?"

"She would probably pick one accomplice in each place, offer them something in return-" Mycroft mused.

"- then escape when things were getting obvious, and go undercover for a while-" Sherlock interrupted excitedly.p

"-Then assume a new identity and start fresh in a new prison," Mycroft finished off.

"Then she finally comes to Sherrinford, and meets someone like Eurus, and together the two are powerful enough to take over the governor's mind. Dyson promises Eurus to work along with her plans... She wanted Redbeard, didn't she? James Moriarty, she didn't really need him, did she?" Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Red herring. To keep us from digging into Bennett."

"But then he killed himself, and I supposedly died. So Bennett continues her experiments, until I come back. Then she, what? She left two years ago, but the guards were drugged in the last few months," Sherlock frowned in concentration.

"She must still have ever been around, somehow. With the governor under her control, she could have been brought to the island any time she wanted."

"Now the question is, how do we get her?" Sherlock finished off grimly.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** I'm determined to finish this story, even when I see that interest has waned, and I have other WIP's. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

"I need to show him that I've changed," John told Molly quietly. "Or, at least, that I'm willing to change. I'm not sure how to get him to believe me."

"Perhaps you need to, I don't know, take some steps in the right direction, and that will convince him?"

"Molly... I don't know. Sherlock rarely holds a grudge, even to the worst of his enemies. But when he does, he's a stubborn bastard. I blew it. I don't know if he'll ever talk to me again."

Molly looked at him silently, hopelessly. "I would love to help you out there, but I'm not sure what I can do. Perhaps you need to get someone to talk to him. Someone whom he trusts, whose advice he'll listen to."

"Oh, Molly, that's a fantastic idea! Will you talk to him? You're a dear!"

"I'm sorry, John, it can't be me. Not after... you know. Things are a bit awkward between us right now. Perhaps Greg, or, or, I dunno, Mrs. Hudson?"

The doctor looked down glumly. "There's only one person in the world that understands Sherlock in a way no one else can, and whose advice Sherlock will fully trust. That person is also someone with enough resources to find me the appropriate help. Unfortunately, I highly doubt he would be willing to help me."

* * *

"I have a gut feeling in this matter, that our suspect may be closer than we have imagined. Several facts point in that direction," the detective mused.

Mycroft hmmed in agreement. "I was thinking along those lines. Let's hear your theory, then."

"We are working on the assumption that Dyson was the outside contact for Eurus. Eurus was able to achieve a lot of her work based on intimate knowledge of current events. Stalking John on the bus, working out his therapy schedule, the business with Faith Smith, where she would have needed current knowledge that Moriarty couldn't have given her five years ago.

"Then there were all the cameras placed, at Baker Street and at Molly's. She would have needed a lot of outside help. It might have been the governor, but that's unlikely. Due to his position, he was kept under close scrutiny, and such activities would have raised red flags."

"Then it's plausible that she was living or around a lot in London until very recently. Due to her very intimate knowledge of Dr. Watson's personal state and affairs, as well as yours- yes, don't forget how she knew about Miss Hooper's feelings about you, when even Moriarty missed that, and could mostly predict how you would react to a maiden in distress when she played Miss Smith, and of course she knew about your drug abuse at that stage and how you would write off her visit as an hallucination."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, upset about having been outdone by his brother yet again. "Since she can't have been one of the key players, as none of us fits the description, although perhaps you are indeed an elderly Lady in disguise, then perhaps she is one of our associates. I place a bet that she's been on _your_ staff."

"Or one of Dr. Watson's co-workers, perhaps. What about _your_ relationships with elderly ladies? Anyone who could be suspect?"

"Of course," Sherlock drawled sarcastically. "Let's see, there's Mummy, I always knew there was something up with that woman. And how can we forget Mrs. Hudson, with the way she's been trying to kill me by overfeeding and- wait, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Are you saying," Mycroft raised his eyebrows until they nearly touched his receding hairline, "that you truly suspect your landlady? I've had my quibbles with her, honestly, but I hardly think she could be the one."

"You can such an idiot sometimes, for all your supposed intelligence," Sherlock snapped. "Not Mrs. Hudson, her sister!"

"Sister?"

"Stella Manning. I'm not sure how that would fit the name we've got, but we don't know whether Dyson was a married surname or maiden one. Perhaps Stella is a nickname..."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Mycroft chided.

"What? Oh, you mean she could be using a middle name. Or perhaps Elaine is a middle name. This is getting more confusing by the minute."

"We don't have much time, Sherlock. We need to start investigating every angle, and find the culprit before she does a runner again, if she hasn't yet done so."

"She seemed very nice. And Mrs. Hudson, she would be so disappointed..."

"Sentiment, Sherlock."

"Don't start that, again. Not when, when-"

"Yes, Dr. Watson. We need to talk about that, too." Mycroft paused, and drummed his fingers on the desk. He then got up to stand next to his brother, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "There are many directions life can take us next. Whatever happens, please do remember, I'm still here for you. I will always be."

The younger brother sighed, and then nodded. "Thank you, Mycroft."

* * *

John had taken his daughter home, and was desperately trying to concentrate on her care. He found himself going through the motions, talking to her, pulling funny faces, tickling her until she screeched with laughter and screamed "mo', mo'," begging for more. He was going through his paternal motions, all duty and no soul. His soul was too broken.

The Watson family got a visitor two days after that soul-destroying day. Molly Hooper hadn't given up on John Watson.

"You need to get help, now," she said bluntly. "Before Rosie grows up, and you lose your daughter, too."

The doctor was taken aback by the pathologist's hard tone. "I want to. I don't know where or how."

"Yes, you do. Go speak to him. I have a sneaking suspicion I know who you're talking about. If he refuses, we'll come up with Plan British, then Plan County, or D. You don't want to lose your daughter like my mother lost hers."

" _What?"_

"My mother and I are practically strangers, John. She had a falling out with my father when I was three years old, and she moved away after their divorce. She was out of my life for years. I didn't remember her. I didn't even know what she looked like. When she somehow found out about my engagement, she showed up, looking to reconnect. It was too late for that, John. You've seen how we get along.

"I've asked her where she was all this time. You know what she told me? She thought I didn't need her. She never planned to have kids, and wasn't much mother material. She watched me from afar with my dad, and saw how happy we were. She didn't want to _intrude_ on my happiness. I could see that she's sincere, but it's not enough. Far from it. She abandoned me, John, and I can never forgive her for it."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Molly," the doctor said genuinely. "I- I'm never going to abandon Rosie, you know that."

"If you don't do what you must, you might as well have. You need Sherlock back in order to function. You need to get the proper help, too. Call him, John. Call Mycroft Holmes."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** This chapter is dialogue-heavy, but the dialogue was too important to cut down on. I hope you enjoy. More action to come in the next chapter.

* * *

Sherlock had given Mycroft a rundown of where his relationship with John stood at. Mycroft hadn't said much. He had just told Sherlock to take care of himself, and added, "I might have told you once not to get involved. It's several years too late for that, now, isn't it?"

"Thank you, that was pretty helpful, " Sherlock said sarcastically.

Mycroft looked at him thoughtfully. "When you are sure about what you want, you know I will offer my assistance if needed."

"I thought I made that clear."

"Not really. You want Dr. Watson to change. The ball is in his court now, so to speak. You cannot force someone else to change." Mycroft lowered his voice, and said in a wry undertone, "Believe me, I've tried."

"Then what would you suggest, oh clever brother of mine?"

"Wait for him. Oh, and you can't be hypocritical about this. You want him to become a better man, you need to do that too."

"Because _you_ are the model of human perfection," Sherlock said sardonically.

"I never claimed to be a good man."

" _Nobody_ ever claimed you were."

Mycroft merely grinned smugly, as if having received a compliment. Sherlock took his leave, and walked out in a haze if deep thought.

Molly Hooper recieved a gift with a heartfelt apology note that night. Sherlock was still working up the courage to talk to here face-to-face.

Janine relieved a package in the mail several days later, with a note stating: _You were right. We could have been friends. I'm sorry- SH._ Inside the package was a deerstalker hat.

Sherlock knew he wasn't, and would never be, one of the pure, shining angels. Still, there was nothing wrong with trying occasionally, was there?

* * *

Mycroft didn't seem surprised to see him there, John observed. But then, it was difficult to tell with that man.

"Dr. Watson," he greeted him politely. "How may I be of assistance?"

"You know," John said flatly.

"I know why you came," the British Government conceded. "Nevertheless, I'm not clear on what exactly you expect me to do about it."

John inhaled deeply, pinching the skin between his brows. "Look, Mycroft, let's not play games. What does Sherlock expect me to do now? What do I need to do to get on his good side?"

"I definitely don't wish to play games, Dr. Watson. I can answer some of your questions, but I'm not sure I should."

So Mycroft had decided to be difficult. "Why not? Am I the enemy now? Have you conveniently forgotten that _I_ was the one you called all the time when Sherlock was in trouble, and you needed someone to watch over him? Ever heard of returning favors, or does it only go one way?"

The older Holmes didn't engage him as he had hoped. "It's not a matter of being willing to talk. It's a matter of you being willing to listen."

John paused. He hated this, the humiliation of begging a man who now had the upper hand. _Like Mycroft coming to Baker Street, begging for a chance to be heard, and not judged._ The thought popped into his head suddenly. Was this revenge? Mycroft gloating over being in Sherlock's good graces, while John was being shunned?

"Believe me, Dr. Watson, I'm not happy with this state of affairs."

"Why not? You have your brother all to yourself now."

"Exactly. He has me as a brother. He needs more than that. He needs a friend."

John tilted his head, studying the man opposite him. "I'm listening."

"What you need to understand, John, is that you're asking the wrong questions. It's not about what you need to do now. It's about what you should have done before, and you didn't."

"I don't understand. I saved his life several times. I put up with his shenanigans all the time."

"Yes, you did. So did I, actually, and he never liked me much, did he? You have him something that was very difficult, if not impossible, for me to give."

John waited. "Respect, John. Respect for not only his abilities, but for him as a human being."

The doctor suddenly recalled his initial reactions to Sherlock. _That was amazing._ His disbelief that Sherlock could be taking drugs. _Have you even met this man?_

"Why couldn't you?" he asked frankly, without a trace of accusation on his voice.

"That's complicated. Mainly, it's because he's my little brother. Truthfully, I still see him, most of the time, as the stupid little boy who rushes headlong into danger, and whose Big Brother might arrive on day too late to save him. I still worry about him, constantly."

John felt something wet at the edge of his eyelids. He blinked quickly. "You're not the rubbish big brother he makes you out to be. You do have your uses, sometimes."

Mycroft smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm glad you think that. Now, you, you believed in him right away. You weren't swayed by anything other people said about him, or even his own behavior. You believed he was capable, you believed he was good, you believed he was a hero. He might not have been, but then he had expectations to live up to."

"He did try."

"You made him a better man. Then he had to disappear, and everything changed."

"He hurt me. I grieved for two years."

The British Government drummed his fingers on his desk. "He did. Not by choice, however. He shouldn't have been punished for something he couldn't help."

John sighed. "I forgave him in the end."

"Did you?" Mycroft looked at him sharply. "Did you still trust him in the same way?"

"Well, no," John admitted. "I never even got a real explanation for why he didn't tell me a word. It was as if he didn't really need me all along."

"He does have a hard time with expressing himself clearly, doesn't he?" Mycroft mused.

John snorted. "Thank God you're so different," he said sarcastically.

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes. I suppose we share a genetic deficiency in communication of sentiment. I just want you to know, that had there been another choice, Sherlock would have never made you suffer."

For the second time in the conversation, John felt that irritating wetness. "I believe you," he said simply.

Mycroft steeples his hands and thought. "You were a soldier," he stated.

"Yes, I miss the war, and all that. We went through this once."

"Fiercely loyal, brave, a need to save others. Also, a tendency to see the world in black and white."

"Excuse me?" John said dangerously.

"Do you disagree?" Mycroft asked calmly.

The ex-soldier sighed again. "Go on," he said shortly.

"It's you against the enemy on the battlefield. Nice and clear-cut. Not in regular life. Not everyone who disagrees with you is the enemy. Not everyone who has hurt you is the villain. They might be a victim, too."

"Are you saying Sherlock is a victim?"

"Not how he wants to view himself, but yes. A victim of circumstances, and madmen who seek to destroy him and everything he holds dear. He's more than a victim, John. He's a fighter, a warrior. He will sacrifice himself without a thought to his wellbeing to ensure that his friends are safe, the foolish boy that he is. He doesn't need accolades in return, but neither does he need recriminations and suspicion."

"I hear what you're saying. I'll think about it," John said with difficulty.

"One more thing, John. If you are determined to do this right, stop thinking about what Sherlock did to you. Start thinking about what he did _for_ you."


	17. Chapter 17

"So, where do I go from now?" John asked, a challenge in his tone.

"I can recommend an excellent therapist, who specializes in PTSD and related issues, who I believe will be suited to your needs."

"You did your research before I came, didn't you?" John asked, half-exasperated, half-amused.

"Purely to cover all bases."

"Of course," John said sarcastically. "It gets tiring, having you Holmes predicting my every move."

"You do surprise us often enough, John," Mycroft said sincerely. "You're stronger than you think, you know."

Mycroft handed John a card with the contact information of a therapist, and then added casually, "We need your help on our current case. I'll have Sherlock fill you in."

"Wait, that's it?" John asked in surprise. "I take the therapist's card, and all of a sudden I'm trustworthy again?"

Mycroft actually looked sheepish. "Look, John, I've never stopped trusting you. In all honesty, I can understand some of your behavior, and I did tell Sherlock to that. What was missing was the trust going the other way. Your coming here is proof enough that we can work things out among all of us." Mycroft paused. "John, let me just say that I'm glad you came to me, and I'm truly sorry for the past hurts I have caused."

John could see the strain that saying those words put on Mycroft. He felt magnanimous enough to be honest with him, too.

"As long as we're sharing friendly advice, let me give you some, too. You can be both."

"Both?' Mycroft queried.

"A brother and a friend. Don't be afraid to give him some respect, from time to time. He needs all the friends he can get."

* * *

John wasn't surprised when Sherlock showed up at his flat the next morning. "Sherlock," he greeted him neutrally. Then he added, in an exasperated tone of voice, " Great of you to visit, but you do know it's _bloody six o'clock in the morning?_ "

"Rosie wakes you at five-thirty, and I could see by the light shining through the window, that you didn't go back to sleep."

"What's the big emergency?" John grumbled.

"The _case,_ John! Aren't you excited to get cracking on the case?"

Sherlock's words were eerily reminiscent of a different time, yet similar situation. John turned stone sober. "Sherlock, wait. Are we going to keep doing this forever? Have a fight, and then just run on a case, pretending nothing ever happened? Because that didn't work out so well all those other times, did it?"

The detective gave his freind a look that said "lost, hurt puppy." "I- is that not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

"So what would you have me do?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Well, I suppose we should- talk things over, I think. Just to make sure there are no more major misunderstandings, or anything."

Sherlock looked up at him hopefully. "So, you want to talk to me? You're not angry?"

The doctor chuckled. "Not at the moment, but I reserve the right. You know, I think I should discuss this more with my new therapist, just so I don't blow this up again."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "You found a therapist? That's great!"

 _"Someone_ found me a therapist." He grimaced. "We'll see how it goes."

"John?" Sherlock said hesitantly. "Thank you for trying. And, uh, you should know that, that I'm always there for you."

John looked at his friend incredulously. "You got that from a book," he teased, trying to cover up how deeply the words touched him.

"Well, yeah, everyone did," Sherlock teased back. "Now, let's get cracking. I need to know everything you remember about Stella Manning. You stayed at her home for several weeks. What kind of impression did she make on you?"

* * *

Between John's recollections and further research, they were able to all but rule out Stella's involvement in the affair. That is to say, her records proved that she was definitely not Elaine, but they couldn't completely rule out the prospect of her having cooperated with the suspect. She was under suspicion, more or less, like anyone else associated with their circle of friends.

"What now?" Sherlock asked glumly.

"Sherlock, is it possible to take a small break? Rosie's first birthday is on Thursday, and today's Tuesday. I'd love it if you could help with the planning."

"Oh, God, no," Sherlock groaned. "What, blowing up balloons? Hanging streamers? I'd rather do Mycroft's filing than that."

"Hey, you did the napkins for my reception. If you ever want a change of careers, party planning would be rather suitable," John said mischievously.

Sherlock chuckled, and suddenly they were both roaring with laughter. It was almost like old times again. Two friends, broken by tragedy and torn apart by pain, getting up, showing the world that they were still alive and laughing, and nothing would ever stop them.

Rosie's party was a smashing success. Held at Molly Hooper's flat, (she had insisted), the room was packed with all their friends. Lestrade and some others from Scotland Yard, Mike Stamford, Molly and her Mom, even Harry Watson had shown up. Stella Manning was also present, and Sherlock did his best to view her as the innocent old lady she most probably was, despite his lingering suspicions.

John and Sherlock had even gotten the British Government to show up, with a lot of good-natured arm-twisting. He wore his usual sneer, and grumbled at having to attend a pointless celebration whose focus was on a person too young to grasp the concept of birthdays.

"Just shut up and eat your cake," Sherlock jibed at him.

Mycroft had nevertheless brought a gift, an expensive game set geared to Rosie's age group. John made a point to present it to his daughter as being from "Uncle Mycroft," and got a kick out of seeing the man's face.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called to him quietly. "I do hope you've been taking the case seriously, and not spending all your time on frivolous birthday planning."

"Don't be such a sour puss, brother mine. What's doing on your end?"

"We have a new lead," he nearly whispered. "Could lead to a breakthrough. But now's not the time, don't you think?"

"No," said Sherlock. "But you brought it up first."

They quickly changed the subject, never noticing the pair of eyes following them sharply.

"Why don't you have some lemon meringue?" Molly suggested shyly to Mycroft. "I heard they're your favorite, so I made some myself."

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," he said politely, looking down on the small tin, containing an individual serving of meringue dripping with icing.

At Sherlock's hiss, he corrected himself. " _Dr._ Hooper."

Molly smiled. "That's alright, call me Molly."

"Thank you, Molly," he amended, and began consuming the treat.

Five minutes later, Mycroft was throwing up all over the carpet.

"Mycroft!" John and Sherlock yelled simultaneously, running over to the man.

The older Holmes was now writhing on the floor. "No, Sherlock, get away! They're going to shoot you! Don't fire! DO NOT FIRE ON SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

John knelt down next to the writhing man, attempting to assess his vitals. "Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson! Get away! She got out! She will try to kill you again! RUN! SHE'S HERE!"

The doctor exchanged a horrified glance with Sherlock. "He's been drugged," John stated.

"Definitely drugged," Sherlock echoed, as he called an ambulance.

"H.O.U.N.D.?" John questioned.

"Likely. Modified to enter the bloodstream through the digestive system."

Sherlock leaned over to whisper on John's ear. "Stella?"

John looked around the room of horrified guests.

"No," he shook his head firmly. "I want to confirm first, but I think I know what's going on."

 **A/** N: So, let's hear from you. What do you think is happening? How did you like John and Sherlock's conversation? Please review!


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** About two chapters left to this story. It's been a pleasure!

* * *

"Greg, call an ambulance- you did? Alright, Sherlock, keep an eye on Mycroft," John instructed. "I need to get to the bottom of this."

Sherlock couldn't do a lot for his brother, besides watch. Then Mycroft suddenly screamed, and began to thrash even more. "Get away from me! Go! Go!"

Sherlock grabbed the British Government under the arms and sat him up, leaning him against his chest. He held his hands tightly, to prevent him from flailing. He began to speak lowly into his ear. "It's not real, Mycroft," he reassured him. "Listen to me. You've been drugged. Your brain is showing you your greatest fears. Don't believe what you see and hear. Just close your eyes and listen to my voice. I'm here. I'm real."

Mycroft followed instructions and closed his eyes, still breathing heavily, but letting himself relax a bit. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Why are we back in Sherrinford?"

"No, we're in Molly's flat, for Rosie Watson's birthday party. Do you remember how much you were grumbling about having to come? Now, think about the present you bought. Can you describe it to me?"

"Don't know. Anthea bought it... Sherlock... it hurts. Hurts a lot..." Mycroft was beginning to slur his words, and Sherlock watched him with alarm. Mycroft wasn't drugged in the way he had been. He had ingested the drug, and who knew what kind of side affects that could have. Or what else was inside. Or what dose he had recieved... Sherlock maintained a calm exterior, while starting to feel just the minutest bit of panic.

"I know, brother mine, I know," he told him soothingly. "Tell me about your Macedonian project. Did you manage to get the ambassador to agree with your proposition?"

"Not ambass- ambassadore. Was the envoy of... of..." The man trailed off, and his head began to loll from side to side. The younger Holmes began yelling into his ear, and then shaking him, but there was no response forthcoming.

Meanwhile, John had marched over to Molly. "Where's you Mum?" he demanded, his tone harsher than he intended.

"What- Mum? She's right here..." Molly trailed off, her eyes searching the room. "Perhaps in the kitchen... I'll- I'll go get her, if you want..."

"No point," John gritted out. "Just, please, tell me this one thing. What's your mother's full name, and her maiden name?"

Molly couldn't do more than eke out a startled, "Huh?"

"Just answer the question, _please._ "

"Umm, honestly, I just know she goes by Margaret. Her maiden name... it's what she goes with now. She doesn't use Hooper." Molly was babbling out of nervousness. "It's Dyson. But what does it have to do with anything?"

John didnt bother to reply. He hurried over to Lestrade, and began issuing instructions fast and furious. "Molly's Mum is the culprit. She's the Elaine Dyson we've been looking for. I would say she took the tube two blocks away, her car would be too obvious. Send people to find her... Oh, get Molly's camera, she should have at least one picture of her. I'll have Sherlock contact Mycroft's people for backup. Now please excuse me, I have a patient to attend to."

The doctor hurried over to the brothers, only to find an unconscious Mycroft and a nearly-panicking Sherlock. "He won't wake up, John," Sherlock whispered.

The doctor began examining him, and was relieved to see that his pulse was still steady, if a bit weak, and he was breathing alright. He was even more relieved to hear the footsteps of the medics on the stairs. The British Government was whisked off, accompanied by Sherlock. John promised to follow soon.

John called Sherlock on his mobile to update him on the latest breakthrough. Sherlock offered to contact Anthea, and then went a step further by offering to contact his network. Before long, a picture of the suspect was distributed to all members, who were instructed to pay special attention to the tube stations.

* * *

Sherlock did all he could to hide his relief when Mycroft finally regained consciousness, after a couple of hours. Mycroft's stomach had been pumped, and he must have donated around a bathtub's worth of blood for testing, but he had pulled through.

"Welcome back to reality, brother dear," Sherlock drawled, smirking at the pale, disheveled man. "You were quite out of it for a while."

Mycroft frowned. "Was I truly drugged? I remember some things, but it can't all have been real."

The detective sobered up. "Yes, you were. With the H.O.U.N.D. drug. You had quite the hallucinations brother mine. You truly outdid yourself."

"Eurus... she wasn't really there, was she?" Mycroft asked wearily.

"She's safe and sound at Sherrinford," Sherlock reassured him.

'"So, who was it? I had a lead, I was almost there. I can't remember what it was," Mycroft rubbed his head in frustration.

"We caught her. Elaine Margaret Dyson, a.k.a Marge Hooper, is in custody now. One of my Homeless Network spotted her coming out of the tube near Canary Wharf. Lestrade had his men chase her down."

"Oh, I remeber now. I got a leaf about an AMexican woman here in London who fit the profile, and was going to follow up on it. I guess that isn't necessary anymore."

"You're getting slow," Sherlock teased.

"I can at least blame some hallucinogens for that, can't I?"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

There was a small commotion at the door. Sherlock walked over and saw John arguing with the security guard. "Let him in," he said firmly. "He's family."

"Mycroft," John hurried over. "Are you alright?"

Out of habit, the doctor looked the man over in a professional manner, and then began scanning his chart. "Oh my..." he said in dismay. "They really put you through the ringer, didn't they?"

"I'm fine. No need to worry, Dr. Wat- John," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock swallowed a smile Mycroft's self-correction. Perhaps these two had truly learned how to get on. It would make his life a bit easier. Perhaps he cound even go back to conspiring with John on ways to annoy Mycroft... or perhaps not. There was something about the scene before him, John's honest concern, Mycroft's genuine ease with the doctor, and the rare moment of all of them being in the same room, and comfortable with each other, that he didn't want to mess with. Perhaps at a later date...

* * *

"I don't get it, John. Why? Why would she do all those... all those terrible things?"

"I'm sorry, Molly. I can't answer that. It's not your fault, you know."

"YES, IT IS! IT ALWAYS IS! EVERYONE USES ME, AND I'M TOO STUPID TO SEE IT!"

John was taken aback by soft, gentle Molly's outburst. She was a fire, raging and raving. "DON'T YOU SEE? EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT A USEFUL IDIOT I AM! MORIARTY DID! AND SHERLOCK! AND MY OWN MUM! AND I ALWAYS FALL FOR IT! I'M USELESS, DUMB, AND PATHETIC! I HATE MYSELF!"

"Molly," John said gently. "Molly..." he approached her carefully, and then opened his arms. "Come here, Molly," he said firmly.

She threw herself into his arms and let herself sob and scream, as her heart continued burning. "Why me? Why always me?" she sobbed, and John could do nothing more but hold her and let her grieve.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Next chapter is the epilogue. Let me know if there's anything specific you'd like to see, and I'll try my best!

* * *

John had done his best to comfort Molly, but he knew she needed more than that. There was only one person who could really relate to her anguish. Well, two, actually, but she would probably prefer Sherlock to the Iceman...

"If it could have happened to Mycroft and myself, it could have happened to anyone," Sherlock told the pathologist gently. "There's no reason to blame yourself."

"But she's my own mother! How could she have done all those awful things?" Molly sniffed.

"She's your mother, and she's also a psychopath. There's no accounting for a broken psyche." Sherlock paused and looked at her intensely. "I think you understand that. What you really want to know is something else."

"How- how do you know- oh, of course, you're Sherlock Holmes, super sleuth, why am I even asking?" she said bitterly.

"No. Personal experience. I'm still struggling with many questions my sister left for me as a legacy. You want to know if she ever really cared, don't you? If you ever meant anything to her, or you were just a tool."

The pathologist's face crumpled, and she answered with a very quiet, "Yes." Then she buried her face into her arms and began sobbing.

Sherlock looked around helplessly, but they were alone. John had left them to their privacy (and Sherlock would make him pay for that). Hesitantly, he put his arms around her and let her cry into his chest.

"No matter what that woman thinks of you, you matter, Molly. You matter a lot to me. Don't forget that you're my friend, and I love you." It was the second time he told her those three words, but this time they both knew it was real.

"You need to talk to her, Molly. Just so that you can get your answers. No matter what they are, you will still be stronger than whatever she can throw at you. You are in charge of your life, and no one will mess it up for you."

"I'm afraid to see her again," Molly whispered broken lyrics.

"Then you'll be brave, and do it anyway. That's the Molly I know."

* * *

The meeting was arranged by Mycroft, of course.

Marge/Elaine looked happy to see her daughter. Molly was furious. "How could you!" she yelled. "Do you have any idea what you put my friends through? And what about all those innocent people that were murdered? Don't you have a conscience? Don't you have a heart?"

Marge frowned at her. "I don't expect you to understand. There are sacrifices we need to make for the sake of science. Ultimately, my inventions would have improved the lives of many. And don't talk about innocence. What right do people have to lock others up in abysmal dungeons? If you're going down the bleeding-heart route, why do you think the guards are innocent?"

"Moriarty was a mass murderer! He had no qualms blowing up blind old ladies and little children!" Molly seethe.

"Look, I'm not saying I agree with everything he did. But you understand that I needed his cooperation if I was to really advance in my field."

Molly was crushed to realize that her mother was too far gone to have a conscience to appeal to. "What about me, _Mum_? Was I also a convenient little tool to help you _advance_?"

"Please, Margaret, I only wanted what's best for you," the woman said almost pleasingly, using her daughter's given name. "Why do you think I encouraged you to get more out of your career? Or to get married? I wanted to see you going places."

"Yes, of course. That's why you set Moriarty on me, didn't you?" Molly spat sardonically. "Or perhaps you wanted me to actually marry him, for my own happiness."

"Hmm, you didn't get that mouth from your father. He was always a meek little man," the older woman mused. "So you did get some things from me."

She smiled. "Molly, I wasn't aware that he was using you to get to Sherlock. I promise you, I gave him what for when I found out, and threatened to expose him if he ever dared harm a hair on your head. Why do you think you weren't included in his final game?"

"What?!" Molly was flabbergasted. "I thought it was because, you know, I didn't count!"

"Jim wasn't that stupid. Everybody could see that you mattered to Sherlock Holmes."

"And what about Eurus? Why was I included in that little game?"

"I actually thought you would benefit from that. I know you had feelings for Sherlock. What better way to help you acquire the prize than to get you to admit that to him?"

"You... you are a sick, sick woman. You let Sherlock be tortured only so I could get him? He could have died. John could have died. People did die! For your information, Sherlock loves me as a friend. He was never interested in marriage. You are beyond help, and I hate you for everything you did to me. You were just another person who used me and betrayed me." Molly said all of that in an even tone, and then blinked hard as she felt tears welling up.

"I don't regret anything I did. I do regret, however, that you feel I betrayed you. I did try to do what's best for you."

Molly walked out without another word.

* * *

John and Sherlock listened to Molly recount her visit.

"That was very brave of you, Molly," John said sincerely.

"You know, Sherlock, I'm glad that I went," Molly told him shyly. "I'm still furious, but at least I know where I stand. And it was good to hear, you know, as much of a horrible person that she is..."

"I understand," said Sherlock simply.

"Say," said John. "How about we take you out for dinner tonight? I think you deserve it."

"I'm afraid I have an important engagement," Sherlock apologized. "You two should go, however. It would be a pity to cancel because of me."

Sherlock watched Molly smile at John, and then both of them talking animatedly as they made plans. He turned to go, privately smirking. Those two idiots would probably not catch on for a while, but there was definitely something brewing there. It would be great if there was someone special to take care of John and Rosie... And John better treat her right, or Sherlock would kick him in the- actually, he was getting ahead of himself. But he couldn't wait to be the one to say, "I knew it all along!"

He did have an important engagement, to be honest. Molly's account had reinforced his belief that inside every adult there is a child still longing for his parents' approval. It was time for another family meeting. It was the least he could do for his brother.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at the end of the journey! Thank you all for your support, especially all the lovely reviews!

I have a new story in the making, titled "Barbarossa," which will contain loads of suspense, adventure, angst, and hurt/comfort, and involve our favorite characters. Okay, advertising time over, go enjoy the story:)

* * *

 **Epilogue**

Mycroft spent three days in hospital, and came home almost as good as new. Fortunately for him, the drugs didn't leave any lasting damage. He attempted to go to work straight from the hospital, and was shooed away by a very displeased Anthea, who assured him that she had everything under control, and she would take personal affront if he were to stick his nose into the office for the next two days.

No one with any sort of sense would deliberately offend Anthea, and Mycroft was no exception. On his second day home, while nearly crawling the walls from boredom, he recieved unexpected visitors.

"Mummy?" Mycroft exclaimed disbelieving lyrics at the sight of the older woman. "Dad?"

"Can we come in, Mikey?" his mother asked, smiling warmly.

The third member of their party pushed his way in, shoving Mycroft aside impatiently. "Do be careful with the mud on your shoes," Mycroft called after his brother. "The carpet is freshly washed." Sherlock merely snorted.

Pretty soon, Mummy was bustling about, making tea and setting out the homemade biscuits she had brought along. A dazed Mycroft was admonished to sit down, lest he wear himself out, and complied meekly. "To what do I owe this honor?" he asked dryly.

"Can't I see how my boy is doing, after the ordeal you just had?" Mummy retorted.

"We just want to see that you're alright, Son," Dad spoke up, his voice filled with gentle concern. "We could've- could've lost you."

"Well, I am perfectly fine now, so you may stop fussing," Mycroft said tetchily.

"You do know that it would break our hearts if anything happened to you, don't you?" Mummy said softly.

Mycroft didn't respond, but his heartbroken expression told more than any words.

"Oh, you foolish, foolish boy," Mummy admonished, tears gathering in her eyes. She flung herself at Mycroft, hugging him tightly. "You know we love you, don't you? You are our child, no less than your siblings. Why would you think we would stop caring?"

"I hurt you. You were angry, and you had every right to be," Mycroft whispered, sounding like nothing more than a hurting little boy.

"No matter what you did, Son, you are still ours. If we gave up on our children every time they upset us, we wouldn't be left with anyq, would we? Just look at your brother here," Dad added, trying to lighten the mood.

As everyone turned to look at Sherlock, he very maturely stuck put his tongue.

"You did do your best, didn't you, Mikey? I judged you too harshly. You were indeed limited, by circumstances beyond your control. You carried so many burdens, all alone, for so long. I should have seen it before," Mummy fretted.

"No, don't, Mummy," Mycroft reassured her quickly. "You did your best, too." Then he quickly changed the subject before the wetness in his eyes could spill over.

Sherlock observed the scene with a grin. It had taken him some time, but he had gotten his parents to come around. He had spoken to then more openly than he ever had before. _He is just as much your child as Eurus and I are. Do you know he feels like you basically disowned him? Why the unconditional acceptance for us, no matter how far we have strayed (and it's been pretty far sometimes, hasn't it?), and harsh judgement for Mycroft, for a single mistake (big as it was)?_

 _Oh, is it because he has been the perfect child until now? Delivering upon request, perfect grades, perfect manners, always attending to your every need without complaint? Put yourselves in his shoes and cut him some slack for once, won't you? He actually misses you, you know. Come through for him when he needs you, as he has always done to you._

Something about what he said must have been effective, because here they were now. It didn't really matter what, as long as Mycroft had his family back.

* * *

Mycroft had Greg, John and Sherlock in his office as they attempted to tie up the Dyson case. Elaine had confessed freely, and had in fact seemed to enjoy showing off her cleverness. _The frailty of genius,_ Mycroft pondered. It often lead to one's downfall.

Elaine had suspected, based on what she had overheard from John, that Sherlock and Mycroft were hot on her trail. She had been making plans to escape and assume a new identity once more. When she heard about the birthday party, she manipulated Molly into hosting it, hoping to find out more information by spying on the brothers, who would be present.

When the scheming woman overheard Mycroft saying that they had a strong lead, she panicked a bit. Trying to create a diversion, she took some of her experimental drug supply and injected it into Mycroft's food. When everyone's attention was on Mycroft, she slipped away. She hoped the affect of the drug would last a while, and distract Sherlock too, while he tried to figure out what his brother was poisoned with.

Fortunately, John had put together the pieces. The details of the case that Sherlock had given him, and the story about her mother that Molly had supplied, plus the incident at the party targeting Mycroft, had clicked together and formed a bigger picture.

"I would like to thank you for helping us solve this case, John. And of course, for your personal assistance during my... medical crisis, which might have helped save my life," Mycroft said.

John smiled. "Yeah, that's what friends are for, right?"

"Mycroft doesn't have friends," Sherlock snickered.

"Well, he does now," John said nonchalantly, waving his hands about to include Greg and Sherlock, along with himself.

The three watched as Mycroft's face turned all shades of confused and bewildered, before looking helplessly at Sherlock, as if begging him for rescue from that ridiculous accusation.

They couldn't help but burst into laughter at the poor man's expense, until the man capitulated and chuckled along.


End file.
